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'The Burning Of The Books Begins'


See how the men strut all about
The stage like champion peacocks,
Owning what was ours, disowning

            See how men who never read
A book in its entirety
Pick and choose the worthy titles,
Never tiring of their tirades
Against good writing, against all
Diverse names printed bold on spines
Across the shelves in the bookstores
Up and down our town.
                                                See the men
Spineless, sighing, while they without
Irony opine openly
That our lives would be made sublime
With the introduction of a
Fiction most sublime, the oldest
One that they know, the most sacred.


The Festival falls at our feet.
Outcasts run fast out on the street.

Nothing happens, in Godot’s world
Made flesh by man’s flesh, so we wait
To go on, a worn retinue
Of actors in a tragedy
Unlike any fit for the stage.

Literature dies as we watch,
And there is nothing left to give
Us hope, as we bury our dreams
Inside a Lisa-shaped casket.

The burning of the books begins
As smoke confesses vi’lent sins.

We are the Chorus. We are the people of the town, watching on as the war of words between Lisa and Mickey Boon intensifies. We cannot intervene in the system, and so we watch all day, and talk, and sigh, and wait to see if we will die.