THE POETS

They’re rounding up the poets.

They’re sending them away.

They stand in chains

To catch the trains.

To where? No one will say.

They’re rounding up the poets.

They huddle in the square.

Their eyes are dead.

Their blood has bled.

They offer up a prayer. 

They’re rounding up the poets.

Their words have all been torn.

With faces grey

And no delay

They’ll disappear at dawn. 

They’re rounding up the poets.

They’ve crushed each verb and noun.

Each simile

Has similarly

Vanished from the town.

They’re rounding up the poets.

They’re sending them away.

They stand in chains

To catch the trains.

In war, conflict and revolution, poets and artists are often persecuted. See, for example, here.