This poem is simply an ode to books, the best friend one can have.
This is an ode to books that provide me with silent companionship, solace and advice and infinite knowledge.
What is a book? I ask myself, when I am in a pensive frame of mind. Is it a piece that readers seek, or does a book seek its reader, a person who is one of a kind?
Is a book a journey, that readers take, that helps us solve this puzzle we call life? Is a book truly about the story or is its spirit, on what we thrive?
Do we love books, because we are enchanted, by how one can just break into song? Or are we grounded, by the fact,
that protagonists, are occasionally wrong.
Do we hold books dear, because they understands us, no matter our plight? Or do we love books, because they assure us, that one day things will be alright?
Do we take heed in books, because we can vent our anger, instead of using truculent ways? Or do we take heed in them, because they shelter us
and help us bury our pains?
Books are the bearers of knowledge, A sea of impossible possibility And stumbling upon the right book,
is the truest form of serenity.
-Diya Hebbar
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