Books, you were not at the origins of the tribe,
and the tribe learned to hunt without you.

And every tribe was equal to another tribe.
And every man equal to another man.

Fishing. The collection of fruits.
The house that sheltered the cold.
The fur coat. The casing of the dawn
wetting the bony handle of
the first tools

Humanity knew without you.

But there was a day
one night
a sunset
that one thought them
and that One infected Others
and then Those no longer consented to get into
the river to look for the fish.
They saw with evil eyes the mountain that gave them
the meat and the thorny forest that gave birth to the fruits.

Scribes were born.
The useless.
They carried the books under their arms.

And then there was no longer a tribe that was equal to another tribe.
Who carried the book carried death
the hunger of his brothers
the source of anger