There is a two million year old man no one knows,
They cut into his rivers,
Peeled wide pieces of hide from his legs,
Left scorch marks on his buttocks.
He did not cry out.
No matter what they did, he held firm.
Now he raises his stabbed hands and
Whispers that we can heal him yet.
We begin the bandages, the rolls of gauze, the salve,
the gut, the needles, the grafts.
We slowly, carefully turn his body face up.
Under him, his life long over,
The old woman is perfect and unmarked.
He has lain upon his two million year old woman all this time,
Protecting her with his old back,
And the soil beneath her is black with their tears.