What will happen

when we

stop writing poems?

 

What will poetry become

when we stop inspiring

and the beauty of words

is silenced or rejected?

 

We will leave the writing table

and descend into the valley

to find new sounds and laughter.

 

We will drink the last water

from thirsty mountains.

 

We will listen

to the resounding

music and laughter

of our own dark forests.