Step with me, through the forlorn dance
our lost ones knew. Travel their thoughts again
for auld lang syne, these hodden-aproned men
of sinewed touch and muscled utterance.

Sit with them. Hear them. Do not intrude
with light or early talk. Can you discern
cadence in fall of night as they return
to wordless breath, to limp-armed quietude?

Now you may build new roads and bridge the stream
of inconvenience. Now you may tear away
a thousand years of footsteps, stir the grave
of memory. For you have known a dream
of hearth and forge. You will not fear to say
- Here is a lovely thing for us to save.

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