I fell in love with you
from a time forgotten.
Once a week, we would meet,
I, ever voracious.
You had illuminated my world
with possibilities, secret worlds.
With you, I learned and began to see
magic in the commonly unseen.
I grew up surrendering to you
hours and weeks, alongside my heart.
And as I carried parts of you home,
along the way, in you I found home.
But to now go against
that that which makes you you
– with pages made pyre –
my incensed heart is torn.
Tell me, what does a book mean to you?
Is it not a creation of art
meant to inspire? Anything but
that which you allowed to transpire.
Tell me, what is a library if not
an impartial book repository?
Ought you play omniscient curator
while the pages painfully smoulder?
– Agnes Chew
Dort, wo man Bücher verbrennt, verbrennt man auch am Ende Menschen.
(Where they burn books, there they will eventually burn human beings also.)
– Heinrich Heine