Books become ornaments
Living on sedate shelves
Mingling with the dust
When their words can’t dance
With the vitality of a heartbeat
Prized books have no home
Wandering with their words
Looking for an abode
Other than the bookends
The company of warm hands
To caress carvings of ink
That light up the dark
Eager to save our today
They can repurpose time
Age lines disappear
From the tiring mind
Inspiring its old mountains
To spill their sand and rocks
Making way for new books

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Niranjan Seshadri

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