They won’t be coming down to Nova anymore.
The ceilings have been stapled to the floor!
Gone are the ones who would set the bows a’quiver;
the arrows no longer span a wider river.
They won’t come down to Nova anymore.
They won’t mourn the fading of the script once again,
nor the mouths that breathed it to the wind, way back when.
Dried up are the tongues and the r’s they rolled;
vanished, the galleries down which the players strolled.
What is there to discern in that script, once again?
And if they come we’ll say there’s nothing left.
We’ll refer them by nods to the rivery cleft.
When the children arrive, we’ll share the bits we know.
“This was how he quivered. This was his bow.”
And we’ll say, “Go look for yourselves. There’s nothing left.”
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