From behind their spines heartbeats are heard and from somewhere on the bottom shelf in the book in the room of discarded volumes unread sonnet whines to the deaf ears of a left volume of essays on philology, while on the upper shelf the biography of a rotten borough politician still preaches against your right to vote.
In the library, you may walk alone at night and listen to every obsolete word begging to be spelled, but mostly you will hear the cries from men who believed in vain they were of great importance.
You can listen to the desperate lament of perished poets; recitals of recipes for lethal potions from books of ancient medicine can be heard.
But as the aged librarian patrols his silent halls the voices mute. The books know well that in his mind their voices still can thrive, and maybe if they stay polite, the librarian will briefly stop and gently run his gentle fingers along their leatherbound spines to calm their hearts.
Today it’s Open Link night at dVerse and I wrote a little bit of prose poetry about the voices of all the books we keep. Have you ever hear the lament from books unread?
September 3, 2020