A plebeian in a microwave

The burning of my favorite books

Was louder than I had imagined.

The night plays with her forest

And weaves us dreams, the beguiling color

Of faded memory.

And one such memory , my personal

Surviving anthology

Still is etched in

Indelible marker

While I see my books being burned.

And the tale unfolds

As each crackle of a burnt wood

Parses out my pain

In verbose virtuosity.

The year is AD 112

And I a common Roman Plebeian

With my head up high

And dreams up higher.

I have no voice

However.

And as I have heard from you people

The ‘Hash tag generation’

My voice has become dimmer, fainter

With each passing of a century.

I still fiddle with my parched inkpot

While I see you fidgeting with each of your

Broken keys

Making sounds as mechanical

As those to come in 1867.

I still walk up to the citadel

With my comrades hand-in-hand

To shout for my birthright-

The final abrogation.

While I see you from my corner window

At my cobbled street

In another window,

Writing furiously

To addresses non-existent.

I am forced to intervene

Don’t mistake this for an

Invidious rant on my behalf.

It’s sad in its essence.

Sadder than your dearth of

Online followers.

Don’t mistake this

For an apocryphal anecdote

For it is as real

As your latest filter

On your latest post.

Now let me watch my books being burnt

In arrant tranquility,

In bewildering peace.

And let me wait for the cinders

To finish whatever they think they’re doing

So that I prepare my front camera

For a selfie with the

Ashen ground

Painted with whatever’s left of

My books