You who waited for thousands of years
in the dark heart of your mountain.

You in your hundreds, singing
scratchy lullabies in your terracotta voices.

You who cradled the mothers of our mothers,
who held our fathers in the crook of your arms.

Ancient as you are, each with a child at your breast.
Your dresses fall in folds as ours do when we nurse.

Tell us what you watched for, high up on your mountain,
what you saw in the bay below.

Tell us what prayers you repeated,
month after month after years.

Tell us, were your prayers answered?