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The Books

The Books

1 min
240


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


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