15 December 2015


By Bryan

The books pile high,
by the walls paved in gold,
A book in black leather,
Printed on Indian paper.

It sits up high,
on its throne of papyrus,
J.C on the front.

Who is J.C?
an old owner,

A page in history,
the only place to learn.

The pages all old and worn,
the maps tell of a land,
Westerners have forgot.

The original words written,
in the language of this land,
but of the tongue long ago.

now lets leave this place,
This place in mind,
the island of Syros,

A place i spent some time,
memories of time,
a child playing with dice.

Time to enjoy the age,
of this digital revolution,
ok, shall we stay?

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