The Historian

Writing history
Is like making a skin of glass
For a drum—
To let the wet sand flow
And sculpt it's denial with your fingers.

Make it as thin as possible,
But never infirm,
Or without consequence.
To smooth out the inconsistencies
In memory, temper the ecstacies
Of anger and awe alike;
And thus, the historian's hand
Keeps searching.

A voice stabs
At the spectre of nuance
As fingers tremble
And keep on working.
Never to completely yield,
Yet you keep on listening
For the voice of causality.