With loving words, as weightless as the vapour
I'd like to make a poem meant to last
And with my hand, like people from the past,
To write it down with ink and quill on paper.

Then I shall take a book, the most appealing,
The one I know is somewhere on the shelves,
Watching the pale leaves turning by themselves
And getting thus a pleasant tingly feeling.

I'll hide the rhyme between the middle pages
As if it were a jewel, dear, refined,
Made not with tools, but with my subtle mind,
With toil and skill, without rewards or wages.

The years will pass and I shall watch them flying
I shall be old, my face will lose its smile,
But our soul down here is in exile
That's why at my demise I won't be crying.

And maybe someday you will feel like reading,
Because you're bored or cannot sleep at night,
And craving for a world with much more light
You'll take that book, which is the most appealing.

And you will surely find between its pages
The poem hidden without too much fuss
And you'll be glad to read things about us
In this old book that tells about the sages.