Ode To Book - Poem by Liza Sud
I remember February just the same
and light and snow of silver
And me... I'm only seven years
I'm with a book, and all - if I were dreaming...
At that time there were a few books.
And every one was so read
As if on a winter land
no living soul left
I got up and went to bed with a book
Reading all night
Not realizing that by...
life goes by - are you sure?
And every line shone
And each letter was living
and when there were no pictures
the game in the head went on
And the world was illusory
And a book so alive
That I did not go out of the house,
to lie in the snow with guys.
When was this? But alive
Memories are in me...
Here now I'll stretch a hand,
A book is waiting on the window...
Other times now goes.
Poetry, tales and prose....
But the book is as fresh as a rose,
And warms in February frosts..
translation from YP
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