There is something about old books,

more than stories they hold memories,

memories of those fingers which gently

turned every page making it a soulful place.


Those pale yellow pages carry

the secrets of their grapples,

grapple in making every line

read and felt by heart.


The biblichor itself craves for the

fragrance of all those sites it has been,

and the taste it felt by those filled mugs.


The dusty torn cover somehow knows the journey,

journey from big book shelves to those

catastrophic desks, 

and then maybe  again to pleasurable surroundings,

Perhaps, they know the revolving,

of endings being the new beginnings.