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 )
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
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