Have you met my distant relative
The man trapped in ice?
A father, or uncle, or
cousin so far removed I can't count.

He spent his days
Racing his paints against
The melting glaciers.
A Neolithic savant stabbing,
Scraping bristles bearing colour;
Line-drawn hunters,
Arms drawn back for art.
Beauty is in the kill.

Stories of scavenging.
Stories of surviving.
Stories of success.
Stories told with each stroke.
Crude was our ancestors' language.
Since: tomes have been bound;
Scribes have translated, cried, and copied;
And oceans of ink have been poured.
Yet, we're still stabbing and scraping
At the minds of those who turn a deaf ear.