both finely bound and cloaked in silk, the letters set in gold,
the book awaits its final touch, at last to be then sold,
be purchased by a fine companion, to sit and then be read,
so long since having human touch, its author long since dead,
the book waits in an oft-dark room, waiting for release,
anxious too for light of day, to find a lasting peace,
until one day into the room, there came a dawning light,
and a young man who pushed a cart, though something seemed not right;
the man took the book into his hand, perhaps a bit too rough,
and tossed it quick upon the cart, his manner indifferent, gruff,
and out of the room they traveled so fast, it had not time to think,
no time for its thoughts to assemble, no time for hopes to sink,
and so the book rode to its death upon a burning pile,
never having once been read, having seen a reader smile.