In a world of pages and prose,
Where tales and stories interpose,
There dwelled a book, so proud and grand,
Its binding strong, its words unplanned.

Yet, within its sacred core,
Lay a sentiment books often bore,
A feeling of disdain, a seething spite,
For a tiny strip that marked with might.

The bookmark, slender and light,
Longed to guide, to bring delight,
But the book, indignant and bold,
Felt violated, its tale untold.

"Oh, bookmark! Cease your cruel act,
To mark my pages, you detract,
Each line and verse, I hold so dear,
Is marred by you, it's crystal clear."

The bookmark, gentle and serene,
Responded with a voice so keen,
"Fear not, dear book, my humble role,
To keep your place, to save your soul."

"But you invade my private space,
With every fold, a tear, a trace,
My pristine pages, now defiled,
By your presence, I am reviled."

The bookmark, with a whisper soft,
Sought to calm the book aloft,
"My dear companion, understand,
I'm not your foe, I lend a hand."

"I mark your journey through the ages,
Allowing readers to turn your pages,
With each encounter, I forge a bond,
Between your words and those beyond."

The book, though wounded, began to see,
The bookmark's purpose, its gentle plea,
"Together we tell a grander tale,
Of knowledge shared, beyond the pale."

In harmony, they learned to dwell,
The book and bookmark, once in hell,
The book no longer felt so scarred,
By the bookmark's mark, it wasn't marred.

For in their strife, they found their peace,
A symbiotic bond, a sweet release,
And though the book held cherished lore,
The bookmark marked the stories more.

So let us learn from this tender strife,
That differences can bring new life,
In unity, we can coexist,
And find beauty, even in a bookmark's tryst.



© AlmaDada