If You Ask Me…

If you ask me
about the ways of our ancestors
I shall tell you: I don’t know
 
I was born when
No tales were told
No whispers across the fence.
 
No stories by the fireside
or yelling & laughter of children
Returning from the village stream.
 
I don’t know
the ancient hunting relics,
The spear, the bow and arrow.
 
Nor do I know
my great grandfather
I have only seen his wooden pipe.
 
I was in my teens
when the last relic, the old hut
in the market square was removed.
 
Not by rain storm or tornadoes
nor the raging whirlwind
But by an old caterpillar.
 
My father has a living room
a camp bed and a racket
At lunchtime, we eat macaroni.