I sit in my study, walls heavy with books,
their spines like sentinels, watching in silence.
Most I have read, though some still wait—
patient companions, promising journeys soon.
The thick ones, reference tomes,
I turn to often; their weight tires my hands,
yet I cherish the burden,
for knowledge is never light.
I love my books, I guard them well.
I do not lend them—experience has taught me
that care is rare, and love for pages
is not easily shared.
An old saying warns:
never lend books, pens, or jewellery,
for they return changed.
Of jewellery I cannot speak,
but of books and pens—I agree.
I have spent a fortune on these treasures,
and I am glad, without regret.
A bachelor, I live with my brother’s family,
none of them drawn to words,
none of them loving the quiet of pages.
So I think: one day,
I will give my library to the world.
Let the shelves of a public hall
hold my beloved volumes,
so that strangers, booklovers all,
may find in them the same solace I have known.
