Near Olduvai some footprints stand in stone
That were fresh made when rock was muddied ash,
Yet where they roamed no human may e’er know,
Or of what need there drove them so to pass.
These relics etched in slag, a poignant mark
Of naked feet upon a journeyed quest,
From where they hailed upon that passage stark
Is ever still a 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 ruler of all life,
A pilgrim blessed to carve his final tomb.
Eons ago a monarch crossed a plain…
Of this bold trek, what hand did there ordain?
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.