By JH Sayyar
O silent keepers of the mind’s delight,
Thou ancient books in rows of dusty grace,
Each page a torch that sets the dark alight,
Each word a mirror to the reader’s face
Within thy leaves, the dead speak and dream,
Their voices stitched in ink and memory’s thread,
In every tale, a world and winding stream,
Through which the soul by secret stars is led.
Thou art the time-bound keys to boundless thought,
The anchors in the storm of fleeting days,
By scribes and sages, truth and beauty wrought,
A temple built in quiet, burning praise.
So let me dwell where turning pages sigh
A life in books, and am not afraid to die
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