Graying

The great gray ones talk to each other in low tones no one else can hear.
They pound the ground with their feet,
Saying things.
Piling the bones of their dead, the gray ones cry. They cry.
The gray are graying fast, and they don’t want to forget.
They’re not supposed to forget.
They’ll never forget.
So onward, into the great known,
with proud fear
and forward, and forward, forward.

I found 'gray' rather repetitive in this poem and I wasn't able to quite grasp what you were writing about. I get the impression it is supposed to have some haunting quality to it.

I took this to be a poem about aging - or old people - and how they rely on their memories.

But there's a lot of repetition - to no effect. As it stands it says very little.

H