The child's eyes closed.
"Gone, 0 gone," cries the mother,
"Gone like the rest,
o
gone and I remember.. ."
"She remembers" they say, using the new word.
And they do remember, her seven deaths .
Little Cub is stiff as wood or stone.
The mother lifts her, in her furs,
Takes her to the cave mouth.
Now she must take this one-like the others–
To the cliff edge, to throw to the wolves.
No . She lays the small thing down.
Piles stone on stone as high as the cave roof.
No one moves. No one speaks.
No wolf can reach that dead child now.
But when the warm light comes, they know,
These stones must be pulled down.
And then the wolves will get their meal.
But when the light comes and the heat from the sky
The old mad she is dead and gone to the wolves.
They take down all the stones.
But do not go to the cliff's edge,
The small woeful frozen face hurts them, it hurts .
They find a hollow in the cold stones,
Put in Little Cub,
Build up the cairn again.
Something speaks to them, something...
They take shreds of green from between the rocks,
Decorate the cairn.
Do you remember? they say.
Now they tell each other,
Returning from hunt or chase,
We did this, we killed the hare, we snared the bird,
"Do you remember how the hare doubled and darted,
Do you remember the clever hare?"
