In a warm, chaotic room, defying searches,
Slipped between two of the million pages,
And any of the trillion seconds since its loss,
Hides a verse epitaph, exposing traitors,
In some long-vanished political strategy,
The stuttering of reconstruction kills it,
For those who try to raise the thing to life,
From a title and three, half-remembered lines,
Travelling through time but never space,
Passing through to the end of copyright,
The death of all intellectual property,
Worth nothing but the price of manuscript,
The paper, pen and ink, with no provenance,
Just a dusty fragment, flattened in a book,
Safe from fading, a child's proud boast.
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