In a bookshop, on a shelf,
In a book, and on a page.
The essence of immortality,
In a constant golden age.
–
It’s very hard to say
Where they are more prized.
At home, oddly scattered,
Or in a library, categorized.
–
We place our own value
On what the stories say,
Or what the poems tell us,
What the words convey.
–
Stories filled with people,
None of which we’ll meet,
Buildings, rooms, roads and paths,
Where we’ll never place our feet.
–
Through their smell and feel,
They hold the test of time.
Ideas embalmed in books,
From ignoble to sublime.
–
A single, worded page.
Such intimacy it brooks.
And where the gentle reader finds,
The companionship of books.