The Searchers

MOSTLY we get data
From the public sources,
Lists of sums rebated
Which were not deserved;
Artifacts of all kinds
Delineate and tell us
Of civilizations
And the gods they served.

So, this iron hammer
Handle we examine
Tells us that they worked it,
Loved Sachlichkeit and more;
A proud, pragmatic people
Devoted to creating,
Furious in making,
Murderous in war.

We have found such traces
In the highest mountains,
Stumbled on them, lying
In the radioactive plains.
We have seen their faces
Pressed on discs of copper;
The owners still elude us,
Mock us for our pains.

Even the Curator
And the best professors
Lent to the Museum
To clarify the paths

Admit complete confusion:
“Probably they were the
Wisest of all creatures.
Or else, psychopaths.”

But as we, receiving
Much of our strange being
From these very people,
Have come at last to see,
Either/Or’s deceiving;
Such a complex thing as
Culture may be neither
Or both, and still be.

In a time of wars when
Verticular cities
Hurl their horizontal
Forces at the foe,
No coherent picture
Satisfies the living;
We, who come long after,
Cannot hope to know.

We shall clean the relics
Carefully with brushes,
Package them in cotton,
Leave this ancient ground.
Our report is standard:
“Valuable information
But no final answers
Were the tilings we found.”