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I met a traveller from an antique land, Who said—“Two vast and trunkless shelves of books Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk microaggressions lie, ableism, Lack of safe space, and lack of my pronouns, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal, these words appear: My name is Feminist Book Shop; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
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Oct 1, 2016 04:58
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| # ¿ Apr 28, 2024 12:28 |
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