Inside a cave in a narrow canyon near Tassajara <br />The vault of rock is painted with hands, <br />A multitude of hands in the twilight, a cloud of men's palms, no <br />more, <br />No other picture. There's no one to say <br />Whether the brown shy quiet people who are dead intended <br />Religion or magic, or made their tracings <br />In the idleness of art; but over the division of years these careful <br />Signs-manual are now like a sealed message <br />Saying: 'Look: we also were human; we had hands, not paws. <br />All hail <br />You people with the cleverer hands, our supplanters <br />In the beautiful country; enjoy her a season, her beauty, and <br />come down <br />And be supplanted; for you also are human.'<br /><br />Robinson Jeffers<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hands-35/
