There, among the other books,
hiding like a precious gem,
sat an old familiar sight,
catching easily my eye.
Time has passed and time has flown;
memories of scenes bygone,
fly on wings as fast as life,
standing still for not one breath.
Catching them is futile game,
scene is followed fast by scene;
yet in paper fibrous bed,
wings of memories find rest.
Touch and smell of that old book,
gave my heart a surge of peace,
through each page and printed word,
Distant times were calling me.