A cemetery on the edge of a bustling city
Our existence is marked by mouldering gravestones
Unkempt graves bespattered by mud and rain. Overlooked
By green hills. They hold no memory of our lives.
This is where we sleep, reduced to footnotes in academic texts
That no one ever reads. Entombed along with our ideas.
We left trunks filled with letters, packing cases
Filled with manuscripts, a wealth of critical material,
Forgotten antiquities. Fragmented mosaics.
Our books are mildewed. Their pages shrivelled.
We are of dubious merit, they say. Our words
Have been twisted by tyrants into monstrosities.
We have no defence. Ambushed by anachronists,
We are a banquet they decline to consume
Our names have been blackened by vexatious historians
Seeking fame. This is intellectual insurrection.
Academics ensconced in the great university are our usurpers,
Embodying everything we opposed.
They will never be what we wanted them to be,
Guardians of our immortality, our breathless, ardent advocates
Broadcasting our message, expounding our ideals.
Our works will never be reprinted. There was no revival.
Nor will there ever be. But those learned men are mortal.
And, in time, they too will be forgotten.