Book Of Love.
None can peruse
Through the sacred pages therein:
On which millions of secrets are tucked;
On which nouns of men are jotted- with fountain
To be erased by end of time.
Therein life's meaning is concealed
By thick muscular walls
And is nourished
By the sap in its vessels...
It bleeds when pricked;
And wounds hardly heal!
Any hand holds it not-
But a one special....
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Comments about this poem (Book Of Love. by Pius Khisa )
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