I was a child
in my mother’s lap,
very small,
unaware of earthly matters.
On the floor,
I toddled
and grew.
Jocund, joyful,
Were my parents
when I looked up at them
with my child’s eyes.
I was in a school
with my book in a bag.
I wondered
what it would
make me,
what knowledge it would
give me
in its word maze
and its labyrinth.
But then,
I started reading
in a routine,
page by page
line by line
word by word.
Soon I felt
a deep association,
its every chapter
a philosophy,
Each word
a lesson of life.
The philosophy
taught me life skills
and made me powerful.
I have known
a life full of groans
ups and downs and stifled moans.
The vision that
life is cyclical
perpetual
ever learning
exploring
moving
like the sun, the moon
the earth itself,
that
nothing is final,
like a plant,
which is cut
today, but will have new shoots
next season.
That
when nature
is bountiful
it spreads happiness,
and sorrows
when it is dreadful.
As I studied what was contained in my book,
coded on its every page
in its every line,
it has felt
my emotions,
shared my happiness and
sorrows as well.
It has had my dust
on its face
felt my agony
in its open arms.
Now,
as and when
I am sad,
weary of life, my soul pent up,
I embrace my book
like a friend
snatched from a cataclysm.
Of course,
it isn’t merely a book;
it is a friend—
indeed, a friend.