Fag-end of Timbuktu

Somewhere is the lost Knowledge of Timbuktu,
There they stacked a most grand library

Now all but gone, this redoubt to thought
Revel always the future we could have made,
For all then and now or Best

Fear the dimming mind and all imitators,

I wish to be there. Away from modern imitators

Who've forgot the wisdom of Timbuktu
The land of salt now, and burnt sand
Land of plenty gone, Oh exalted library

Rain not fall and season brief, an ancient bed made.
Though throughout our banal tenure, a profound thought

Synapse and sinew, skin and bone, carried thought,
Brought and built oasis later taken; hackneyed by imitators

Give corrupted, invaded, early hatred made
What love and discernment, once adhered great Timbuktu

So rotten and fragmentary, a legendary library.
Mayhap in consideration, ignorance being bliss; lost is best

Any port given unto knowledge should be best,
Perfect in description, this most wonderful utopian thought.

Mud and stone mortared great library
Left to dream again, by the same impostors,

Never knowing what belies Timbuktu,

Making another believe, as the first time made.

Think of what you need and what must be made
Dance when you know that knowing is best,
Even if you find the death of Timbuktu
All that is really salient is thought
Worn and dispatched for the imitators
Hidden bellow the sand evermore; that most fabled library.

Only in dream may live this library,
A milestone in humanities passage made
Better left, they say, to them the imitators,
And the derisory propaganda from the conqueror's best.
Controlled and mandated, inferior by design thought
Once upon a time, noble city there was, called Timbuktu.

The best has left Timbuktu,
Where many imitators confounded gold and library
We can only hope to learn from gaff when made.