One morn as leaves sparkled with dew,
Unacknowledged, died the sage.
Family mourn’d him, but none knew
With his passage, passed an age.

For you see, in times long ago,
The pen was mightier than steel.
Words were rations for minds to grow,
The thought beyond, water for wheel.

As time went forward, as it must,
And old forms became older too
Fewer could reach beneath the crust
And find in words that which is true.

Forgotten, the great mages died.
None had the time for their old spells.
Some saw, but despite all they tried
Words were cast off for screens and bells.

You can still rifle through their tomes.
They are tiny worlds each with strife,
Near and far full of duels and tombs,
And each says something true of life.

And perhaps no one will miss them,
Perhaps screens and bells fill the hole,
Maybe no one needs thinking men
To tell the thoughts and tales of ol'.

But it will be a mourning day
for having your heart in a twist
Because it will soon be the day
That passes the last novelist.