In the new world of books,
Where the hungry mind's meal is cooked.
Laid ancient artifacts.
Golden treasure that the unborn yearn to behold.
This treasure caught my busy sight,
Which hungers for root of the rare gem.
My legs drove me here like a fast bike.
It covers 5 meters in a second,
Just to take a glimpse this diamond.
A mountain of books.
An ocean of map, a guide to today's writers.
Their quills had dried up long ago,
Yet their words still drip ink on our tongues.
Scrolls of Aristotle and Shakespeare won war.
The war against time that makes things lost.
Your words are not trend that are visitors.
But your ink is like the earth that never stop.
Your ink shine as though made now.
I use your ink in writing this scroll.
Ink men of today still drip your ink on their scroll.
Will our ink still shine if time tests the scroll?

Shakespeare says, "The world is a stage..."
But who gave me this play that has no page?
We are the playwright of our play.
God has given us the light for the way.
"Action!" Our feet stand on the theater,
Ready to perform, use all strength to do better.
The judge is sitting at the auditorium top.
Millions of mouths jazz for the artist of pop.
Their echoes can trick a lofty heart to fail.
But the dressed player will not be the tail.