Fine Tales of That Which Was Not Found

A text can be as full
Of lost dreams as a tomb,

But words, like tombs, can be
Bare stones. The thieves were here.

Or were there thieves? Was this
A grave in the first place?

Blocks of words, blocks of stone,
May look bare, lost or not.

We are the thieves. We want
Loot, gold, hoards from a world

Like ours but lost to us,
One we know we can’t know.

Some texts are rich with what
Would bring that world to life,

At least in our mind’s eyes.
Those masks! Those robes! Those rings!

Lies. The plain stones, the floor
Cut with weeds—they can speak.

The drab phrase, the dull line,
The trite rhyme. They don’t fail.

They’re bland to us. We want
The sense of a felt world

We’ve robbed their texts to reach.
If it’s not here, we’ll leave,

Call them cursed. But they speak.
They do sing. Each to each.