When We Are History

What about when we are history,

when our days have passed like fables

and we are only dim memories of memories past?

What then will it amount to

whether we passed our footsteps over these cracked sidewalks

and whittled away our hours in their fullest?

But perhaps we are myths,

the smallest things our mysteries.

Perhaps we are, after all, history,

broad pages we are filling with words,

falling from our beaten rubber soles when we are walking through October.

And what then of our braveries and small wise moments

if we are not breathing every instant for

Achaian shores, the end of long journeys home,

our helmets battered and our faces grown older in our years away?

What then would be the magic of mortal mystery

if we were not fighting,

filling our lungs with hopefulness—

maybe we are not now the things we wanted to be

but we are making history of ourselves every hour

making of ourselves things to be said.

And so what about when we are history,

when we are greatness,

will there have been passages that made our words worth telling?