My mother likes to say "It's not so important how proud you are of your ancestors, but how proud would they be of you?"
I wrote the following poem with this in mind.
Ancestors
Trudging through the tangled path,
Thwarted, stalled, and pressing on -
Once more perseverance hath
The ages won.
Never looking back nor seeking
Comforts of familiar places -
Ravaging wildness, wreaking
Aging faces.
Dauntless, following the need,
Pulsing through their gritty marrow -
Beyond tomorrow, cast slow-speed
Flies the arrow.
Morning ever dawns anew -
Places, mortals, hours unfolding,
Leave behind the smallest clue,
Truth withholding.
Peering back through chapters' prose,
Victories found within the pages -
Touted brazenly by those
In modern ages.
Whence come forth the haughty proud,
We followers left in their wake?
What deeds enveloped in fate's shroud,
Their pride will make?