The postwar ruins (Roofs ripped off,
The charred walls.) do not resemble
Skeletons, stripped by the predators—
The gnawed-upon scraps of ribs,
Crushed to dust cranial bones.
Only that the same birds
Flock to the remains
As to scorched ground.
To be struck in the forest by a flash of light, where there’s crunch
And crackling, rustle and creaking underfoot, and the hush
That brings to mind wheezes and groans, whispering and sighs,
Where every measly bush is disguised...
By definition, the modern practice of history begins with written records; evidence of human culture without writing is the realm of prehistory.