“A book about books is like a poem about poetry:

Books are knowledge, paid for, all.
Readers - horses in a stall.
Stallions should always run.
Lest they stale become, in turn.

Running waters are most clear.
In some books, you disappear –
lose yourself, and track of time.
How I wish that one was mine...

Mine, to have, to write, to read...
Mine, just like a flying steed.
Mine, forever, - to improve.
Would I then, of me, approve?

I would not, I can't... myself.
I'm but dust, swept off a shelf.
Fly, can I, just 'til I'm settled,
down, beside my flower, petalled.”