Between then, 

and nowhere

in this distant harmony...

We poets,

are forgotten words.

Alive, 

only in waiting,

Haunting and curious

Sinking down by ancient greetings...

 

We speak,

a language of old.

Forgotten by age

and long replaced.

As we have become,

ghosts of twilight-

Evading time

only by weaving

our own souls 

into tapestry's,

by ink and blood

 

As we persist,

through eons

with saturated wisdom

dripping onto

and delving deep 

into each and every

new civilization

We revive,

for a flicker 

then we reside

forgotten once more.

As we are buried deep

by emerging poets, 

who then repeat

each cycle.