“Why do we read books?”

Why do we crack the covers wide—  
And tiptoe in with eager eyes,  
To lands where dragons sometimes hide  
Or stars spill over distant skies?  

Books are bridges, bold and bright,  
That carry us from here to there,  
Across the dusk, into the light  
Of worlds we couldn’t know elsewhere.  

In tales of kings and kitchens small,  
In every page and every line,  
Our hearts can race, our tears can fall,  
We borrow lives, and make them mine.  

We read to dream, to stand, to fly—  
To understand another’s pain,  
To ponder how, or wonder why,  
Or simply dance within the rain.  

A book’s a friend on quiet days,  
A spark to light forgotten yearns;  
It walks us down a thousand ways,  
And waits each time the page returns.  

So why? Perhaps—because we must,  
To learn, to risk, to see anew;  
Books show us worlds that we can trust—  
And sometimes, they reveal us too.

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