Through shelves of volume and quite refrain
I wonder meekly amidst the quietus of pain
And the settled dust of Death’s returning
Blankets the causeway of unsettled learning
To float and flitter at a whispering sigh
Taking to flight upon dark wings of good-bye.
The mid-light sun catches its fleeing
The despicable dust becomes golden to the seeing,
Such momentary glory afforded then gone
Reflecting like mirrors the shuttered out sun.
The unearthed tomes of unearthly grace
Of ashes to ashes free from dusts’ trace
Beckon to wanderers through others’ pain
For its well known: leather bounds the slain.
As wormsmeat of volume and flesh is made
Only the eternal word is lustfully saved
Upon the backs of scholar and scribe
The black ink is burnt and death is its bribe
To fill to the lees of drunken tales
For such lonely an adventurer to solemnly impale.
I linger between the canyonous shelves
Dimly reflecting hacked seedlings dark selves
Such fitting a fate: death canvas for Death
As new leaves unfurl short gasping life breath.
An immoral soul beneath each cover lie
Such are the words which are writ not to die,
And so such a lonely wonderer as I
May partake of dust covers and now whisper good-bye.