We see ourselves in between pages and find our dust there . White silver fish are swimming near dusty spines . Book pages are mortal, starting from where our silver hair ends.
Books are blind to men as they tower over their lives . The blind poets imagine them behind their eyes, from what they had seen in atavism.
From early childhood of the world, the books have collected dust from dark nights . The alphabet to reach them shouts from old mud houses. Slates from mud houses tremble with the letters . The school boards are black, with the white dust falling.
Books are final summaries of our white dust.