A bunch of ghosts

T.S. Eliot has suddenly
come back in 2022,
he thought he'd add 
a line or two when he 
re-read the burial
of the dead.

There comes Samuel Beckett
who sees Didi and Gogo
still waiting as they were, long
ago, under the patient
tree, he steals the line from
the Bard pours it into their
throat, they seem to chant it
like a melody, 'under the
greenwood tree, who loves
to lie with me'.

Slowly come Kalidasa and
Tagore, reliving the wars
we fought in the yore;
all litterateurs of the world
come to the dais one by one
witness the wars where
everything is lost, nothing
won, everyone dismayed with
the disastrously designed mayhem.

They pleaded and pleaded
with all stalwarts and leaders
who looked at each other
with utter voodoo, and said
in unison, 'it wasn't me, it was
you'.

All the dead writers of the world
when they didn't hear a word
from the soi-disant shepherds,
yelled, 'don't waste your own
land' to the leader and their
herds: the authors tried to
convince them to yield, to
kill the wars, but infatuated
with warfare, they
were saying cheers and
raising a toast, the men
of letters tried hard to talk,
but in vain, all in vain; those
insane power seekers
impervious to the appeal;
engaged to make a supercilious
deal, there wasn't any response from
the unconscious hosts until the
wordsmiths were indoctrinated
they were talking to a bunch of
unearthly ghosts.