These ideas once had life,
Were thoughts that people once
Lived, breathed, had hope in.

But now they are dead,
No-one can truly think them—
They must be reconstructed, revived.

And the language they’re clothed in—
Stiff, archaic, full of words
That have nothing familiar about them.

It’s the stuff of antiquarianism,
Preserved for history’s sake alone—
Yet, these are this year’s books.