The Books
The Books
Books are in the restless wintry mood,
Their voices seem urgent,
What the books whisper
We prefer not to mention in social circles
Yet they know more,
Have been where we can't go
In the clothes we wear
They are unsettled, we are motionless,
Their voices are foreign to our ears,
They disdain, they will shake us off,
Too many voices, too many lost conversations
When I open a page, fall into its frosty profundities
To sink like a stone, I talk in cliches
They hover in time like bad omens
They flap wings, frantic pages cloud the sky
They are the darkness in our bones
That keeps on sparkling like dead flames
What struggles, they endure day-night!
Some books unopened stay to sight
Books of some pasts have been scorched
Or may long live not a page turned,
To die unread of ripe old age,
Or by next-generation earned,
Yellowed, book-worms devoured in rage!
There’s a thing common— books or men,
But a few significant cans
Every book has its shining creed,
Which we fail to read and believe