Leatherbound

Leatherbound

In times long gone to rest I owned a book,

Or rather tome; that name becomes it more.

And all the secret whisp’rings of the earth

Were locked inside its all-enclosing girth.

It lay in leather binding, black as jet,

And silver tracings flowed along its face.

Their lustrous edges lithely curled and hooked

And cast themselves new shapes each time I looked.

In flowing hand and golden ink it spelled

The quintessential words of purest truth.

Its every page was filled with knowing verse,

And I absorbed the wisdom it dispersed.

But all things bow to Time their hoary king,

And as the years his subjects passed me by,

My golden words began to slough away,

And fade at last to naught but shades of gray.

And though my desperation turns each page

Time and again, they offer no respite

From worldly troubles as they always did,

And from me is its truth forever hid.

The world and I had weathered many turns

Since then, until my grandson came to stay,

And saw upon its polished marble stand

The book I kept in vain so close to hand.

He flipped the pages idly at the first,

But quick enough his eyes grew round in awe.

He said, “It almost moves my heart to fear

Do you know what’s written here?”