When he was only twelve he happened
On a bookstore and drifted in a trance
To a dusty shelf of titles he knew at once
He 'd stumbled on the mother-lode of wisdom
He was far from his native language
His family torn apart barely enough
Money for keeping alive let alone books
But whenever he could he'd come
To that little corner in the back of the shop
And take down one of those books
Smoothing the dust away with his fingers
And open it randomly and read
Just a paragraph or two letting it sink
Into his soul like drops of water
His parched lips slowly drinking it all
No comments:
Post a Comment