When wordsmiths no more will wonders attest;
Pen-pushers finding their pages no longer,
Leaving off leaf-work, the labor of scribes
Put forth as prayers in previous days;
When singers are silent, their stages left empty;
And all that emerges in every art
Is a mishmash made up of masters since lost,
Nothing new coming, noting made fresh;
Will people weep and wail in their mourning,
Start forming seas from their souls’ windows,
Or will they instead, inured to the injury
Done them for dollars in deepening hoards,
Grin and go on and gladly set by
What once they valued, held worthy as treasures?
Might well those many, motion eschewing,
Sigh once and settle, sullen in mind,
Fearing to fight, fates accepting
That others will offer, put off their own?

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