They will not be forgotten.
With backs straight and arms open,
They embraced a fate
Which spelled death for the community;
A slow liquidization of the mind
Just as their pages were reduced to pulp.
Characters fled disaster
But could not escape the purge:
The Negro went down with the ship
Amid calls of racism;
The female swoons into her own grave
Dug by feminist hands;
The opium trader is burnt alive
In anti-colonialist revolt.
Stephen Dedalus has gone
Into permanent exile,
Told to take Poetry and Art with him,
Leaving the shelves bereft
With only glossy dust jackets
To fill the gaping void
Left by irrelevancy.
How long before it is decided
That we are no longer relevant too?
I can already see them carving my tombstone.
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