This news is peculiarly affecting and spurred a fleeting impulse in me to write a poem about it. I say “fleeting” because I remembered that Richard Wilbur has already addressed the issue beautifully, although concerning a different people and a different language:
To the Etruscan Poets
Dream fluently, still brothers, who when young
Took with your mother’s milk the mother tongue,
In which pure matrix, joining world and mind,
You strove to leave some line of verse behind
Like still fresh tracks across a field of snow,
Not reckoning that all could melt and go.
Doubtless Bo speakers now have at least two things in common with the Etruscans. One, the distinction of being “wiped out by paternalistic policies […] and robbed of their land and independence.” Second, the fact that both survive at all thanks to the efforts of scholars.