‘Poetry is dead,’ she said, and turned away;
How could it be, I thought—all precious verse
Wrapped now in linen, nothing more to say,
Now carried off in some black nameless hearse?
Not yesterday, she lived and loved and gave
To empty hearts and souls, sweet smiles and tears,
And now to lie, cold, speechless in some grave—
Confirming thus the worst of poet’s fears?
We must take up that precious pen she held;
We cannot let her fade into the night
Her spark remains, her fire must be felt—
Each bard must rise to keep her spirit bright;
Without her light, then every heart is blind,
And we accept the dumbing of mankind.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.