The book lay on the shelf for years, and aged as cobwebs formed upon it
Unread, it fed an archive with a thousand more just like it
As typeset faded with its age, and pages became brittle
I wish I’d had the common sense to read it just a little
The stories that these archives held, were mysteries and fiction
Waiting for someone to pick them up, with no restriction
And the time it took to follow them, could be counted as a deed
To help the educated learn how great it was to read
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem