Old Words

The dusty book in front of me Was written centuries ago And, in its youth, it was a tree Whose story’s not for man to know. This tome was carried by the hands Of cultured men who proudly owned And turned the page softer than sand To read of exploits hardly known. They learned of dynasties and kings Whose memory would now be gone If only these leaves did not sing Of how man’s straws indeed were drawn. The scholars died; the book survived, But now the knowledge chain is broken, For no one bothers to revive Old words which are so rarely spoken. Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com