Ode to Latin

December 3, 2011

What is a tongue deceased?

like voice on angels’ wings,

carrying a trumpet,

lost in the background of modern noise.


Requiring excavation;

scholars mutter,

holy men repeat.

Why should a dead thing be so beautiful?

Lying there like road-kill on paper.

Graffiti atop ruins.

Born from ancient Rome

By sad pointed U’s, rolled R’s.


Sleep with those men, sibyls, centurion.

Dance with that literate dust.

Echo signifers, senators and founding fathers.


Shall I see those minted letters?

Shall I cry out the elegant vowels

of scientists:

Esto perpetua!


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