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 ā€“

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.

— Will Advise

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