Beauty of Books

Books don’t have to mean. All they need is a dream. Someone to explore their pages, And judge not by their faces. The scent of ancient books, Tombs of novels in tight nooks, Crackling the pages of the white-yellow hues, Each hoping to be read anew. And only for those who seek more, Will they wait to unfold its untold lore. Perhaps an imaginative anecdote, Or rather a monotonous note. Knowledge can be used as power; But, be as beautiful as a spring-time flower. Keeping that knowledge will be for naught, Unless you yourself is taught.