In this orphanage of ideas
You will find me in the directory
Somewhere, at the intersections
Between westerns and fantasy
Just wander down the isles
I’m in the fourth row in the back
Pressed snuggly in science fiction
Standing stiffly in the hardbacks
Bits of dust coat down my edges
As I pine the unbinding of my pages
It seems my life is endless waiting
For the fulfilment of your sages
My jacket glistens in the light
With the title anchored on my spine
I get ecstatic by your nearness
When my binding falls in your sight
Look carefully and you will see me
Between the old and new editions
My covers dull, but filled with contents
That will unleash imaginations
Read me, and you give birth to thoughts
That expands beyond your skies
For a library is a key to heaven
That shapes the pages of our lives
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Every author must think of their book as almost a living thing, but with your poem you've really brought a book, if not all books to life. I love the line: 'Read me, and you give birth to thoughts'