They used to burn our books.
Threw them on a bonfire while dancing, chanting their ancient syllables as the pages and ideas turned to ash.
We revolted.
Rounded them up like cattle.
Butchered them.
Buried them in the ground and rejoiced in our newfound freedom!
Freedom to read and publish as we pleased.
What a Golden Age of learning—
while it lasted.
Then they resurrected.
Not as zombies, but as gaseous, burrowed heat, hissing always below our feet.
Below our cities.
Libraries.
In life, they used to burn our books.
In death, they burn—
preemptively—
our trees.