Aged Hydrant, Yusuf Kidwai
All the poets are dead,
And every lover is no more;
So too the words that quills once writ
and too the words they bore.
And math and machines and technology
have invaded sombre heads;
And now the feathers are put to flames
The books are no more read.
Where is romantic mystery
That found the lips their kiss,
inspired by devotion
From the woman one man missed?
Where is that careless curiosity
that bloomed that doomèd Poison Tree?
Where are the nothings diction smoothed on pristine papel1 sheets;
Sweet nothings to make two gorgeous lovers shine their ivory feet.
Where are the words no longer read?
Who decided to leave the poets dead?