Music Suppressed

O you fortunate writers who came before me,
Who, by binding words with ink to fiber,
Rooted your works in reality.
Our Digital Age preserves many trees,
But in doing so, wrecks posterity's cache,
Those pulpy engorgements, our libraries,
That bloat—filling space—with every heave
Exerted by brainy monkey-kind. A sort of waste,
Yet: the plaintive squeak of a rigid spine,
The riffle of pages under a thumb,
The thud of the Third International . . .
Remind us how precious knowledge once was,
How reading and writing were magical arts,
(Still are, in a sense!)
And how, having such fruits at our fingertips,
Within our actual, literal grasp,
Is gratification unparalleled,
Unmet by the still, sterile online search.