Of ripped and tattered binding,

Holding volumes ‘gainst each other,

Shelf after shelf;  endless winding,

Whimsical fairytale enchant,

Factual battles recorded,

Literature old and new,

Prize after prize awarded,

Filled with stories and tales,

That no one man could read,

He sits in his corner, flips the page,

And his mind is immediately freed,

He is consumed by this trance,

Man can read and find many treasures,

But he cannot read forever, and so,

He cannot enjoy forever pleasures,

That reading may bring hi,

Like the smell of yellowed papers,

Of ripped and tattered bindings,

As his candle slowly flickers and tapers.