Novel & Cerita A Book Of Poetry

Clara’s POV The laughter stopped the moment I walked in. I walked to the desk and dropped my bag on it. "Good," I said. "You already know how to be quiet. We're ahead of schedule." Nobody moved. "Literature," I said, pulling out the poetry anthology. "We’re finishing the poetry unit. Lady Lazarus by Silvia Path." I placed the book on the desk and looked at the class. "Someone tell me what it's about." Nobody responded.

His smile could light up the entire library. He settles into the leather wingback, my favourite chair, the one I curl up in when I want to feel held, and opens his book. I catch a glimpse of the cover. Pablo Neruda. Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. “Why are you reading that?” He looks up at me. “What?” I clear my throat. What the fuck are you doing Vanessa? I adjust the collar of my shirt. “Neruda. Why are you reading it?”

Piper — cat, queen, bookstore menace — stalked over the counter like she owned it and plopped herself on the pile. "You're in the way," Aria said. Piper blinked at her, stretched, and knocked a paperback to the floor. "You're fired." The bell above the door rang just before noon. A woman stepped in, tall, sharp, her coat the green of frozen leaves. "Do you have anything that feels like winter?" she asked. "Genre?" "Poetry. Something cold." Aria nodded, stepping toward a shelf. She traced the spines until she found it: The Book of Hours by Rilke. She handed it over without a word.

I can visualize the clock wheels turning in his head, trying to decide if I am capable of understanding the complex poem. I like a challenge! I sit, ignoring the warmth spreading through my body as I lie close to Bryce, opening the tome, and I gasp. The artwork on the page is beautiful and elegant. The lettering reminds me of "The Book of Kells," a real work of art. But I do not have the time to carefully examine the intricate patterns and designs created in different colored inks.

“If I do need anything, I’ll let you know. Thanks for asking .” He slowly returned to the desk. She then moved to the bookshelf and straightened the spines. She saw Titles in law, finance, and travel. But there was a single slim poetry volume book tucked sideways; it was as if it had been hidden rather than shelved to be noticed. The vent whispered loudly. Somewhere down the hall, a floorboard complained. The manor kept its own soundtrack; today, it sounded like a held breath.

She's a nice girl, even though I'm more likely to remember the entire makeup routine than her name. The will to leave the room evaporates from my body. Strolling around, I find a book in one of the drawers. It's old, and the cover has faded halfway. I know not to judge a book by its cover, but this book looks less appealing than a sandwich without filling. With nothing better to do, I decide to read it. It turns out to be a poetry anthology with different poems. Surprisingly, they're interesting. I read a few before dozing off.

I was about to turn away—honestly, I’d already proven my point by existing in here—when something caught my eye. A book. Not just any book. It had a dark velvet cover, stitched along the edges, with delicate silver embossing. Fancy. A little dramatic. Totally Sebastian. I picked it up, flipping it open without a second thought. He should’ve hidden it better if he didn’t want anyone snooping. The first page stopped me cold. A poem. Not the gross, rhyming kind either. It was... good. Too good. The kind that actually made you feel something.

This was what contentment felt like. This was what having your entire world contained in your arms felt like. “What are you reading?” I asked, noting the way she relaxed completely against me, trusting me to hold her, to keep her safe. “Poetry. Some old collection I found in the back corner.” “Any good?” “Some of it. Though most of it is very dramatic. Lots of tortured souls and unrequited love.” “Sounds depressing.” “A little. But some of the love poems are beautiful. Listen to this one.” She opened the book and began to read in that soft, musical voice that never failed to capture my complete attention.

I demanded, eyeing the mysterious device untrustingly. Indigo didn’t try to hand it to me though, he merely unwound a string of leather from around it and flipped it open, revealing more and more pieces of parchment inside, hundreds of them, bound together and fanning up from the center between two thicker outer shells to make an arch. Captivated as all the parchment settled again, I watched in awe when Indigo pressed his hand down on it. “This,” he told me, “is called a book.” “A book,” I repeated reverently, easing cautiously closer. “Is it dangerous?”

Miguel, on the other hand, looked for it on the Internet, in various online stores and auctions. Unfortunately, it turned out that this book had only a few copies and was therefore extremely difficult to find. Most shops either did not know about its existence or never had this book in their collections and only heard legends about it. It could mean two things - either this book simply did not exist, or it was so dangerous that only the initiated had it in their book collections. Maria rejected the first option because she trusted her dreams and gut feelings now even more than before. Therefore, Miguel believed that the second option must be true, and it gave him hope that if they could get