Year after year, class after class,
A dull grey ooze of shapeless mass,
Squishes through one sleepy ear,
But out the other to disappear.
Oh, how I wish it were not true,
That history class should so bore you,
For more than endless, empty strings,
Of dates and wars and stuffy kings,
It’s a story of those who, as we now,
Once loved and breathed and how,
They fought to win their day.
One job, I want so much to do,
Is tell their story so that you,
May learn to love it just as dear,
As I, and learn to e’er hold near,
The lessons, taught quietly by our dead,
And otherwise forever remain unsaid,
To put flesh back on their old bones,
Rebuild temples from broken stones,
Return color to the faded text,
And show that all that happens next,
Has roots in that which passed away.
History should not ever be told,
As a long list of years, both dead and cold,
It’s a story and should be shown as such,
The human mind well absorbs much,
But best the narrative remembers,
Our ancestors sitting by low embers,
New this well and through tales passed on,
The wisdom of generations gone,
This, my philosophy told brief,
I hope shall bring some small relief,
To the otherwise asleep in class.