Open the glass door of the shelf,
dripping the smell of my grandfather ‘s
collection of Tolstoy’s short stories,
I reboot it after a year.
I pull the old newspaper from the shelf
do you notice?
The dark gods of the Balinese life
a memento, when I visited there long back.
I melt into the bookshelf’s soft hue
Kafka and Camus placed side by side,
Will you argue with your friends
who is the better writer?
At the bottom Neruda’s love poems aglow
in the hidden lamp,
mottled light mutes this wooden shelf
and halo me with the light rays.
Outside the red hibiscus drinks
from the cups of the twilight.
Jasmine and Frangipani season
my love for the books with hope.
