The Silence Of The Poets

is something to be grateful for.

Once there were so many books, so many poets.

All the masterpieces one could never read, indistinguishable even then among the endless shelves of the unreadable.

Some claim the best stopped writing first. For the others, no one noted when or why. A few observers voiced their mild regret about another picturesque, unprofitable craft that progress had irrevocably doomed.

And what was lost? No one now can judge. But we still have music, art, and film, diversions enough for a busy people. And even poetry for those who want it.

The old books, those the young have not defaced, are still kept somewhere, stacked in their dusty rows.

And a few old men may visit from time to time to run their hands across the spines and reminisce, but no one ever comes to read or would know how.

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