Old ancient book, older than the dust
Encasing the folds of mysteries
Sitting alone, forgotten
On an old shelf, patient
Its pages are filled with ink
It could be a book about enchantment
Or a portal to another world
More rich than any could have dreamed
Its withered pages fluttering under my breath
The ink fading now, as cracked as the leather cover
Stretched to its limit, its binding broken
Its dusty smell, the smell of ancient time
Old pages, old memories, old ink
The writer long since forgotten
The book remembers, remembers through the ages
The book's casing can wither and die
But the words are there
They still live and breathe like always
Like memoirs on graves of the dead
It remains, though much else is lost
Here through the ink portal
The words are never forgotten
