There's a man who stands like a statue and reads,
And with all his books, you'd think it'd be words he bleeds.
But it's almost as if he sits and holds his breath;
Contact and communication seem to be his death.
Such a kind soul, but it'll never be seen
Alone in a crowd, all others can be so mean.
I'd guess that the knowledge behind his eyes
is a beauty greater than the morning or evening skies.
Yet he sings still so soft that one strains to hear:
Melodies and literature, the only things he holds dear.