Books

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The power of this world is kept
Within the dusty pages beyond the human space.
Where words and headings are discreetly wrapped
In vintage leaves of books on a bookcase.

The smell of history and glory mists the mind,
Bringing back childish study of book sheets.
When your grandmother, sitting on a chair behind,
Was reading stories you absorbed with treat.

You open up the book and start new life:
Finding new home and meeting bunch of friends.
You danced through pages with ease or was at strife,
Hoping the story would continue to the end.

You cried along with them and sensed the pain,
Or flipped through pages with a beating heart.
Some chapters scorched, words felt like chains,
As if the writer wished to tear your soul apart.

You fell in love with characters in head,
And caught a breath when felt their presence near.
Laying with land of print on paper in your bed
You are completely deaf, as book is all you hear.

Books are eternal flames of life that teach and chide.
They are the envoys of the past with gift to heal.
You live in paper world of tales where one can hide.
Who said that all those magic stories can't be real?

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