Could anyone be bothered pressing these
in clay? Or scratching them in polished stone?
Words once were more than writing, were their own
accomplishment—you didn’t read at ease,
you read at work, you dragged them from a field.
Then words were stooked, hand-tied, and lined in rows.
You harvested whatever you could carry.
But now, each day’s another dictionary,
a library of untranslated prose.
We weigh the chaff and think we’re talking yield.
I don’t believe there’s anything to say
that someone reading this in 3010
might think was truly worth the waste of clay
except, "I was alive like you. Back then."