‘Tis mysterious that my heart beats
Thumps in its ribcage rebelliously
Behaves like a child unruly,
In obstinacy, turns back towards
A wooden shelf bent with books,
Like a truant child asking for a candy,
Oh I must admit I skip many a heartbeat
When I see a bibliophile or a library.
Why, I have wondered long,
Is it that I find the likes of myself
In others dipping their heads in pages in a bibliotheque?
How I become acquainted to a
Mirrored me, I suppose it’s Alice
Playing the prankster, leading a dreamy me into
Forests that merge into castles
And then suddenly I’m awake!
‘Tis a subtle connection from past lives,I realise.
Perhaps, I was Caxton,
The scent of warm paper, who loved.
Or a Romantic quilling stories
On Helen’ s promiscuity,
Or could it be a star gazing Hardy detailing Bathsheba’s
Dilemmas and desires in Wessex’s prudery.
Oh well! Let yarn spinners be, suffice ’tis- books transport me to fantasy!
© Mumtaz N Khorakiwala