Dead & Alive

Books Alive

You tell me to my face my friends are dead:
Just cellulose and ink stamped on a page.
The former from tree-corpses, felled and bled,
The latter fluid sable we engage.
Books are not dead – good books are friends to me
Sharing with me the mind – also the heart
Of authors who can discourse easily
So I imbibe the wisdom they impart
Across a space of centuries of time
Although the hand that wrote has turned to dust
Their minds live on in sentences sublime.
Besides, to books I can secrets entrust:
My books can listen: nor can they betray
My confidence. Books are alive, I say.


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