In cold, dim cells
Under the ground
Secretly we read in hollow voices
Poems written by dear ones who have departed.
Then for the second, third and the thousandth time
We revise some of Our Poems
Hidden in the caverns of memory.
We fix them up, dream that one day
We may uncover them to sunlight.
We yawn, wake up,
Put them back into old cases of the ancestors,
Lock them up, and
We go out to the street,
The masks of servility,
Performing the roles of the fools of old,
Afraid that They might discover
We are poets!