Voices From The Past

Voices, many voices, we think we hear,
Crying out to catch our ear
And tell us of days gone by,
Days when they lived and laughed,
And would sometimes cry.

We have taken it upon ourselves to dig
Into their lives, sometimes not giving a fig
About their thoughts, concerns, or cares,
We, after all, as genealogists,
Bravely go where no one else dares.

Hark! Stop for a second!
Listen as the voices beckon!
We were not saints, they say,
And at times we rue the day,
You went exploring,
Without acknowledging or knowing,
That we were human just like you,
And deserve that acknowledgment.
It is our due.

I was young, strong and brave,
And my momma taught me to not misbehave.
Life, though, caught me up,
And sometimes delivered me a bitter cup
From which to drink.
That gave me pause to think.

So, in parting, I beseech you,
To tell the story true.
I was no saint or angel,
I did what I had to do to survive.
If that does not fit into your view,
Then, all I can do is beseech you,
To let sleeping dogs lie.

Spivey