LOST

LOST

all quiet
on the poetry front

bards on both sides
scrying down telescopic sights
in the crosshairs
here a sonnet, there
an ode
scribbled rap lyric
way before its time

let us not forget
hands and fingers that
could not be more creative
traversing self-
loading wespons that fire
ten to
twenty rounds per second

whole volumes complete oeuvres up in thin air
biting
the dust (death by
industrial warfare such
a monstrous cliche)

not much space here
for cross-
pollination, seminal
influence, collusion

even less
hope for free

translation (whole
generation
of the not-yet-
lived-yet
lost)