They still write about us;
they don’t know why.
Our memories live on
through their words and song,
Maybe they envied us;
our glory and our wealth.
Doubtful they may long for our struggles and sacrifices.
They still talk about us,
in media and in revelry.
History only ever painted half of the story.
They still spend their lives,
in the search of what motivated us;
Our psychology, our politics, our mysteries,
and desire to be shocked and dismayed
When they think they’ve learned the truth.
But they don’t know us.
They haven’t worn our shoes,
fought our battles, bore our children.
In the glistening and misted eyes of history,
we were inspired by contemporaries,
who shaped the times in which we lived.
We who lived in the golden age,
paved the road for the present;
A world of iron and death.
Preoccupation have they now,
with the palaces of painted gold,
and the resplendence of Camelot, and the high castle.