Across centuries evolving, remembered and forgotten,
hands have griped tools differently — flint, axe, plough,
and now stylus, screen, with fibre-optic hum —
and yet ancient warmth lingers beneath the evolution:
a face still turning toward a face, the ancient language
of nearness and embrace that no epoch crosses out,
for we are the creatures who reach and stir together,
who lean, who ask are you there in whatever
thought, tongue and words the age embodies,
and beneath the flesh of how we speak and make
there moves a bedrock tenderness, unbroken,
still urgent and claimed across the ages,
the same soft gravity that pulls us close
however far the modes of meeting drift.

Find that, and you have found the human ground,
the constant fire under every passing hearth.

 

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