Within pages of a book,
Knowledge lies as a nursery bed
of spinach awaiting transplant,

Amidst thousands of books,
lies a book with a shredded
cover but filled with alluring

words that blooms like tulips,
words that soothe the heart,
words that ignites a flame that

never fades, even when the book
dies, it lives. Each paragraph, a
route to discovery, each page, a

journey to a new city, the last
paragraph, a start of an untold
story

The library, a home for books,
not home enough for all books,
but a house for some books,

yearning to explore new souls.
Days pass, nights pass, weeks pass
months pass, years pass but no one

cares, all are reluctant to read a
book laying between dust but
caught between dreams.

It lies on it shelf, awaiting
rediscovery or bid it worth
farewell.