We have no name for the people who came before us.
Some call them “The Builders;” others, “The Destroyers.”
Stories told in ceremony and song, but no definitive history.
There were many, many of them, and everywhere they went they marked the land with roads and bridges.
Many of the elders ponder how they did all this, made these lines straighter than any tree and harder than any stone, but not me.
I see their marks on the land like whipping-scars, their broken houses scattered across every hillside, their still-poison valleys where no man can live and I wonder why.