…once gave precious words
The poets must never die
their thoughtful strokes of ink
are still drifting like morning mist
seeking a place to rest
if we allow it
words will become old
before they are even written
they will be gone
lost in the poets’ souls
transient lines
traced upon pale sands
writing on water
unable to go deeper
unless we seek it
we will become further from it
and the poets will die
all that is beautiful and sacred
vanished in that moment
everything for which one can live or die
all that is creative is reduced
gone before it is even read
all that remains stands without context
nobody will understand our language anymore
a tremendous flood of meaninglessness
the truth is just like this
turbulently thrown aloft in flight
like burning leaves
upon a wild black wind
entertain no doubts, cast them off
for this is all that will be lost:
… interplays of light illuminating the obscure
… words and images corresponding
… words of danger and beauty
… felt as ripples upon an ancient lake
… words recalled as stories long carved in stone
these were all once revealed
thorough the pages of the poets
the poets who must never be lost
on the dark paths of ignorance
cold machines cannot masquerade
in the name of poetry
this is a consequence of soulless disregard
a subtle erosion gradually quenching
the flames of passion
and in time, only silence will remain
a deep, empty silence
the legacy
where the poets
once gave precious words
© Ann Bagnall (an updated version from a 2014 poem)
