The Halls of Our Fathers

Responsibly, each day, we wander through the halls of our fathers
In search of a door that leads to a lost garden
Where they say the first of our namesake is buried.
The halls are dim, the only light coming
From the tall, ornamental windows, paned with thick, opaque glass.
The walls are lined with portraits,
Some of proud, dignified men,
Others, meek in appearance,
But still to us they seem noble,
For we recognize ourselves in their features.
They whisper, it seems, urging us on in our quest,
Which has been a part of our daily ritual for years now.
The path is labyrinthine, and we have forgotten now
Which halls we have traversed.
Sometimes we wander through the middle of the night,
With a candle to light our way.
Then we hear the voices of the dead crying
And we begin to wonder if they have not also searched in vain.
Somewhere, in the garden of our forefathers,
An aged bird sings over a gravestone
Marked with our name.