in his solitude, moonless and lost
the ancient librarian dawdles
for the last apparition of truth
left in the pulp-fiction-platitudes
lost in the wake
of righteous book-burning youths,
claiming that knowledge is only
of their nation’s decay.
he should have
known that the voices
of the populist clowns were merely
the canary bird singing in vain
to warn of the circles in soot
being drawn on our doors
and the coming of pyres to burn
the librarian smiles
in the knowledge
of books he kept hidden,
even from ashes of books
the knowledge might phoenix again.
Today I host the last dVerse Open Link Night before we close for two weeks during summer. We will also be live, and you are free to join for the first hour of the bar.
The poem is reworked from a previous poem I wrote for Friday Fictioneers, but I think most of you have not seen that one before.