VINDOLANDA: A UTOPIA

My friend writes in a special language:

It's a forgotten and redeemed language

like the wooden tablets of Vindolanda.

She also used to live in our common language;

the border between them not being quite firm

as the ruins of Hadrian's Wall.

By each new written line

the Wall has slowly been moving to the North:

Now you can see no soldiers patrolling its top,

The gates of milecastles are wide open,

The ditch filled with poems.

My friend's language has no more territory to conquer.