Soft, quiet, a blanket of books,Turn left, left again, up the stairs,Feet finding the usual route.Passing comrades, enclosed in words,To the end of the row, near the window,The chair, my haven,Of books.

I don’t notice when it grows dark,Outside,I don’t look up from the knights,And dragons, and swords, and horses.The problems in this world are easier,To face than the ones inMine.