On the wall

It was not easy,

Getting the bile,

Mixing the grease

With crushed coal,

And red earth,

And blood.

And making that brush,

Oh, that took years:

I tried a stem,

With crushed fibers,

Then a bit of fur,

Then an oxtail,

Then sacrificing,

My own falling mane.

The others thought a worm ,

Or perhaps the devil,

Stirrs deep between my ears.

I started unambitiously,

Hesitant, checking what could be done.

Short essays in my art:

A boulder painted with a mendalla,

A hand print blown with oil, ocre, and dust.

By the spring, we were famished.

Stocks running low,

We left the cave, to search for game.

To feed our empty stomachs.

I could not resist the joy we felt!

After that shaggy rhino,

After that mammoth,

Gave their lives,

In generosity.

We will not die!

We will not starve!

They said I went and lost my mind,

Instead of resting,

Our stomachs bloated with all that meat.

But I could not help myself.

The cave was big

And the walls larger than any boulder.

And so...blank..

And the death of a friend,

That I had to draw, too.

How, in his moment,

He fought the bear valiantely,

And saved me!

But his son was too young,

And so, I drew for him,

For his father.

I raised the boy,

And he became a great hunter,

Our proud leader.

And to my joy,

No one questions his sanity,

As he takes the brush

From my withered hand,

And draws new visages.