Long have I been a bibliophile,
I’ve read quite a pile.
Borrowed some and owned some,
But loaning my own has always been a qualm!
Some I unjustifiably skim through,
Some I unreasonably judge by the cover,
Some covers have me allured,
But never manage to keep my heart moored.
And then, there are those that I’d wish to read forever.
But finding these are synonymous to never.
But lucky was my story,
To espy the right library.
Where one such book I found,
That resonates my tone and my sound.
Wasn’t pristine, yet had a shine,
Was waiting with a sign, to be just mine.
The cover wasn’t much of a revealer,
It was so elaborate, with so much to discover.
I begin to read through the first page in fervour,
I’m submitted to the story like a meek server.
So many words that I don’t understand,
And some I fear I would misunderstand.
As I read, and as I flip,
The tattered pages and the binding begin to chip.
I remind myself that it’s the book I love,
I should be more gentle, as I rove.
Each chapter feels in its own, a new story,
I could read endlessly and yet never relinquish its glory!
The plots and the connecting dots,
All beguile my time and thoughts.
So consumed I am, as the stories speak,
That I conveniently let go of some misfitting leaks that creak.
No book comes out of a perfect quill,
And so, some pages are a run of the mill,
Some chapters are too much for my mind,
But no other book more intimate I find.
It fills my mind, it fills my soul,
Like how grass covers a pretty knoll!
It liberates me and captures my imagination,
Gives me wings to fly and points my station.
Sometimes I wonder, am I worthy of reading the book;
And soaking in everything in the brook?
But maybe it was just that the book,
Was just awaiting my look.
So, I try my best to give it what it deserves –
To be an enchanted reader, for whom it was always reserved!