Arks and zoos now harbour the remnants of our refrains. What poetry can we imagine, when poetry itself has gone extinct? Must we look for it in the soot of our burnt books? Must we decipher it in the trampled pastures of rapeseed near Barbury Castle? Must we discover it by calculating pi to a googol of binary digits? Must we extract its requiem from the iambic pulses of the Cepheids? We have heard its flutter and wow but once, emanating from the precincts of Tau Sagittarii. We have dialed our radios to the appointed frequency in megahertz, but never again does the call-sign chime; instead, we hear a dark roar, as if from a spectre, trapped inside a Claude mirror at the edge of the universe. We look for this ghost, but the blind glass reflects back at us only a blank stare, made from the most durable isotope of nothingness. It ignores us, like a sphinx of black quartz.
გამოხატეთ თქვენი აზრი მოცემული ლექსის შესახებ კომენტარის სახით!..