I travel to the sound of fiction;
I follow the creativity liefly.
My home is the binding of a book;
I sleep in the blankets of paper.
I am comforted by the stories of the written;
Rather than my own mother's.
I am fed with life and letters;
And I sip from the cup of ink.
I only wish,
For one to explore with me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem