A book is written in a certain way
Garnished with chapters like flowers in May
Robust in structure, appealing in form,
With many conclusions after the storm
And yet, beyond the silent cheer
Of words, hidden is drama under the dust
A page in the middle is always in fear
That once turned, she is left in the past
We are always traveling at the speed
Of life, with diminished regard for this
Moment of time; once it is gone we need
All the memories to harvest the bliss
You turn the page and all is left behind
It vanished? No – it’s all in your mind.
Tibi
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