Last night, I walked by the relics.
The last of the violent beasts.
Small and damaged now.
Filled with anxious, mounting fear.
The last know speakers of a dead language.

Now exquisite neon figurines,
talk slithering sounds, and horses sleep alone.
The raucous rivers lament the frivolous tunes
and silent broadcasts.

And the poets, who thought
that success followed desire.
Write to complain about the loss of poetic form.
And the death of odes to love.