Some footprints lie near Olduvai in stone

That were fresh made when rock was mud and ash,

Yet where they roamed no one shall ever know,

Or of what deep need compelled them there to pass.

These relics etched in slag—a voiceless mark

Of naked feet upon some nameless quest,

From whence they hailed upon that starkened track

Remains a solemn mystery of the past.

When did man first gain knowledge of his plight?

A being meek, forever set to roam;

From prey to all, to master of all life,

A pilgrim lost—still searching for a home.

Eons ago a monarch crossed a plain…

Of this bold trek, what hand did so ordain?