Friends, poetry is dead and will never come back to life, so do not torment your heart by continually reminiscing about it.

In this couplet, the poet dramatically declares that genuine poetry has breathed its last, advising companions not to torture themselves by mourning its golden past. Beneath this bitter, cynical advice lies an intense grief—it hurts so much to see true art wither away in an indifferent world that pretending to give up feels like the only defense. It is not an actual dismissal of verse, but a heartbroken lament disguised as resignation.