I met a traveler, sunblind, coin-eyed, who said

The Falling Ones are the Watchers of Men
Who sit on the high places, who feast on the fallen.
Crow and Raven, Vulture, Kite, and those
Who gorged on the meat of the eaters of feasts
These were the teachers of women,
These were the ones who came at their call.

My perfect lover came as a thief in the night
Kindled in love with yearnings.
My house is now at rest.

(There were others:
lion and jackal, hyena, coyote,
proud wolf, racoon, opossum,
beetle always, worm and fly,
and herb and tree.
These were the names of the angels,
the watchers of men.)

Shake yourselves, you blades of grass, and turn your ears to the ground:
I come to turn your hearts to your mothers and the bones of your fathers

These are their generations.
Their children are queens and kings, the mighty ones,
The giants born of the lovers of angels,
Our first fathers in the days
When Ugarit gazed in awe
At the standing stones–works of what god–
that even then
littered the ages’ dune

Look on my works, ye Mighty

In how many years will the last cragged scar
Of any city that towers today
Stand in its colossal Wreck
Watched only by those who always were
Our mothers’ most perfect lovers?

and who, in those generations, will remember
how like gods we are today