The Death Of English Literature
Soft as the dusk at the close of day,
The words of ages drift away,
Once bound in beauty, fierce and bright,
Now faint as stars that fade from sight.
What once was treasure, clasped with care,
Falls like leaves in the empty air.
No more the verses bold and keen,
Now silent tales, once told, unseen.
The voices rich that sang so clear
Are ghostly whispers few can hear.
Each line that held a heart and mind
Unraveled now, left undefined.
In every book once held so dear,
Only shadows linger here,
A quiet tomb, a lost refrain—
The songs of soul that die in vain.
Yet still I mourn with heavy breath
The quiet, slow, unspoken death
Of words that once had bridged all time—
Fading, faint, a lost, last rhyme.
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