Wandering in a wood of shelves and books,

Over litter, leaves fallen and gone

From branches of minds the winds of time shook,

For one page that remains empty as dawn,

A sheet virgin white upon which to write

A creation of beauty and lines,

Intertwining, binding, beneath moonlight,

Like the thread of fate made of wayward vines,

A vine to grow and bloom, full and mature,

Until its fruit nourish humanity's soul

With words clean and clear as dew on stream-shore,

Each word a mirror of thoughts never told,

But each page dies yellow and old with must

Encrusting beneath used words of ink-rust.