A book lies dusty on a shelf,
its contents misunderstood,
an author’s child,
born out of blood sweat and tears.
Its pages fading corners,
now untouched by inquisitive fingers.
A book of knowledge,
soon to be lost in time,
as years take their toll in decay,
and old man’s dream,
is soon to rush to dust.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The frustrated Author here me thinks, nothing one can do but hope one day it will be read...10