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.


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