Who cares about books anymore?
Aren’t they just crazy scribbles
Of an insane mind?
Which still believes,
that words matter?
Who would care about,
A library?
Which is eventually burnt down
To make way
For things, more important ?
They say,
Books crave solitude
Lone man’s treasure
It isn’t fashionable to read,
Habit of nerds and geeks
So the books die
Choking in their own unread words
Dust breaking down their spines
With disrepair and sheer abandon
And then they are sold
Dime a dozen
Like happiness
In the old bazzar
I too feel scared
Of being judged
Therefore sometimes when I read
I hide inside a chrysalis
Hung on the mulberry tree
Of my garden
Where I can’t be seen
My mind takes me to Plath
And my heart sings with Woolf
And yet, when you walk upto me
I don’t raise a storm
I just hide my book
Or burn the pages, like you do
Afterall, the dragons are imaginary
And so are the notions of freedom
You chime,
And I believe you
-Rianka Bose Saha
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