22 Dec 2015 – Sonnet

Once moths ate scrolls (and certainly still do)
and all we have of peoples and their past
are just the pages insects long refused,
and Time forgot to turn to dust at last.
Tonight you’ll read, unhindered by the storms,
the poets and the story-tellers tales,
long scrolls of light and pages without form,
flung high above the cities and the gales.
But what worm waits to eat our weightless words:
electron charges, laser-coded spots?
What vermin comes to gnaw our nouns and verbs,
and show, again, how Time esteems such rot?
The ink runs quick and must be scribed again.
The world is water, every page its skin.

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