In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland,
At the sea-downâ€™s edge between wind-ward and lee,
Wallâ€™d round with rocks as on Ishbu Island,
The ghost of NuTang fronts the sea.
A girdle of lemons and thorn encloses
The steep, square slope of the server-less bed
Where the sites that grew green from the graves of Dave's roses
Now lie dead.
The files fall southward, abrupt and broken,
To the low last edge of the long lone land.
If a ping should sound or a comment be spoken,
Would a ghost not rise at the memberâ€™s hand?
So long have the gray, bare blogs lain guestless,
Through forums and guestbooks if a member make way,
He shall find no life but Daveâ€™s, restless
Night and day.
The dense, hard connection is blind and stifled
That crawls by a server none turn to climb
To the strait waste index that the years have rifled
Of all but Dave, who is touchâ€™d not of Time.
The sites he spares when the server is taken;
The pages are left when he wastes the plain.
The members that wander, the blogs wind-shaken,
Not a button to be pressâ€™d of the finger that falls not;
As the heart of Hoya, the pages are dry;
From the thicket of thorns whence Papagoya calls not,
Could he call, there were never a member to reply.
Over the forums that blossom and wither
Rings but the note of thezebraâ€™s song;
Only Dave and le_battement come hither
All year long.
The blogs burn sere and the domain dishevels
One gaunt bleak blossom of textless breath.
Only Dave here hovers and revels
In a round where NuTang seems barren as death.
Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping,
Haply, of users none ever will know,
Who left NuTang two to three sleeping
Heart handfast in heart as they stood, â€śLook thither,â€ť
Did he comment? â€śLook forth from Ishbu to the sea;
For the profiles endure when the blog entries wither,
And members that leave may dieâ€”but we?â€ť
And the baboons sang and the same waves whitenâ€™d,
And or ever NuTangâ€™s last files were shed,
In the fingers that had commented, the text highlightenâ€™d,
Or they lovâ€™d their sites through, and then went whither?
And were one to the endâ€”but what end who knows?
Activity, sea-deep, as a rose must wither,
As the red baboon asses that mock the rose.
Shall the gone take thought for the gone to love them?
What blog was ever as deep as a grave?
They are guestless now as the header above them
Or the wave.
All are at one now, lemons and lovers,
Not known of the sites and the pages and sea.
Not a breath of the server that has been hovers
In the air now soft with a server to be.
Not a shoutbox shall sweeten the index hereafter
of the site or baboon that laughs now or weeps,
When, as they that are free now of weeping and laughter,
Here death may deal not again forever;
Upgrades may come not till all upgrades end.
From the blogs they have made they shall rise up never,
Who have left no site active to comment and send.
Lemons and thorns of the wild ground growing,
While Yenamaboya lives, these shall be;
Till a last serverâ€™s breath upon all these blowing
Roll the sea.
Till the slow server rise and the witty comment crumble,
Till files and bandwidth a member drinks,
Till the strengths of baboons of PPGY humble
The files that lessen, the bandwidth that shrinks,
Here now in his triumph where all things falter,
Stretchâ€™d out on the revenue that his own hand spread,
As a god self-slain on his own strange altar,
Dave lies dead.
(Based on "A Forsaken Garden"
by Algernon Charles Swinburne)