The Poets are silent today.
Nothing left to say.
No clever arrows
released above the world,
dropping truths
into troughs of expectation.

Not even the laureates with
their liquid pens
can find the flow
to describe the suffering
that distant butterfly creates
as he fans the flames of chaos.

Yes, the poets are silent today.
Their pages unsullied
as their gaze falters,
and their mighty hands
lie motionless
at the sound of distant fire.