“Reading Books”

A world awaits behind each printed page—  
A silent kingdom waiting to be born,  
Where dragons fly and ancient legends wage  
Their battles on a carpetwrecked and worn.  

I crack the spine; a whisper greets my ear,  
Of whirling leaves where Alice chased her fate,  
Or Sherlock’s pipe-smoke, curling ever near,  
Or fields where Anne, a dreamer, learned to wait.  

Bent corners, faded cover, ink that stains  
My thumb—these humble marks of joys relived,  
A thousand cities flicker in my veins  
With every word the written world has given.  

For books are not just paper, glue, and thread—  
They are the stars I carry to my bed.

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