Searching For A Vanished Poet

A sheet of paper carried on a summer breeze tumbled passed me. Where it settled, on a park lawn lined with elm trees, revealed a dump site of sheets, all abandoned poems. No breeze refreshed me, sitting alone on the hot grass, reading poem after poem, looking for you, your signature, your voice, your presence. There were poems in French and German, Spanish and Arabic, English and Mandarin Chinese, Attic Greek and medieval Latin, and in several unrecognized languages - those poems preserved their secrets. The rest made up our Company of Poets, spread across every niche of planetary life, our contemporaries, our peers, our friends. I saw only early poems by you, and searched the pile again for your new poems in vain. As I slumped to the ground like the others before me, twenty more came and and tossed their poems without a word spoken. More came, more piles appeared. I cried out in a strangled voice, 'My friends, what is the good of what you are doing? We should be rescuing, not burying.' Some glared at me, others threw their poems away with contempt. But worst by far to witness was the low, mean laughter of a few. It was laughter of those without hope, a sullen crowd attracting more followers. A girl with green eyes, maybe eighteen, maybe younger, suddenly stared into my blue eyes. Our sights locked, and I saw in her face a fierce hope shining with integrity.