The aged librarian never gazes
he has ceased to search for liver-spots,
and he doesn’t need to know how much his skin
has ceased to tightly wrap his failing flesh
or see the yolk of eggs
remaining in his beard.
He doesn’t need to know
cause between the pages of his most beloved books
he sees himself as don Quijote
being always late to battle windmills
or he feels the weight of poison hemlock
he holds the goblet in his waning hand.
At dusk he talks to shadows:
“My books are mirrors,
both labyrinth and cul-de-sac;
their words are chains
to keep me sane at night”
He falls asleep
and in his dreams
he dares to meet his youthful face,
a beard-less stranger
he sees the canvas that was himself,
before the books took hold
and wrapped his insufficient
soul in shame.
Today Amaya inspires us to write poetry on mirrors at dVerse Poetics, and for me that is an excellent way to bring back the aged librarian to the bar.
Also I have to say hello from Claudia who I met yesterday evening where we shared a wonderful dinner with long talks about the pub and how it has changed over the years.
Also linking up to Poetry Pantry.
August 20, 2019