‘Poetry is dead,’ she said, and turned away;
How can it be I thought, all precious verse
Bound in white 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 lay, cold, speechless in some grave,
Confirming there the worst of poet’s fears?
We must take up that precious pen she held;
We cannot let her fade into the night
Her inspiration ever must be felt
And for her legacy, each bard must fight;
Without her light, then every heart is blind,
And we accept the dumbing of mankind.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.