THE FORGOTTEN BOOK
Once, in the hush of a silent room,
I held a book, its pages soft with time—
each word a lamp, each line a song,
and in its light, I wandered long.
But one day, my hands set it aside,
placed it upon the waiting shelf.
Another story called my name,
and in its lure, I lost myself.
The days turned years, the seasons fled,
and in my search for newer tales,
I left behind that golden book—
its whispers dimmed, its voice now pale.
So too, the hands that held me first,
so too, the arms that knew my weight,
that bore my grief, that shaped my steps,
stood silent as I walked away.
In childhood’s glow, their world was mine—
their voices sang my cradle’s tune.
But as I grew, my heart took flight,
and left them fading with the moon.
One day, weary, wandering back,
I reached once more for that old tome.
Its words, like embers, leapt to life,
its warmth as bright, its soul my own.
And in its glow, I saw again
two faces wreathed in tender light—
love, unforgotten, waiting still,
like books once placed beyond our sight.
