A Book Of Poetry นิยาย & เรื่องราว

"What is this?" She picked up the note and started to read it slowly. "When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Running my fingers along with the rolls of books in the palace library, I have never written a poem before, so I need to research; I stop walking when I notice a small leather book without a title. That peaks my curiosity. I grab it, and walk over to the sofa and sit down with the book in hand; I have never seen this before, and it has my attention. I open it and start reading through some of the writing, and it's a handwritten book; I'm not sure this is even a book, more like a journal.

Forever bound by Tuberose's art, In the Fragrance of Love, we'll never depart. As I finish reciting the poem, my heart is filled with a profound sense of connection and appreciation for the words that have touched my soul. At this moment, I realize the power of Tuberose's poetry to capture the essence of love and evoke emotions that transcend time and space. With the book held close to my heart, I continue to delve into its pages, immersing myself in the fragrant world of love that Tuberose has created.

Her work at the local bookstore, once a mundane routine, now felt infused with a sense of meaning. She found herself drawn to the poetry section, her fingers tracing the spines of books she had never explored before. She discovered the delicate beauty of Emily Dickinson's words, the raw emotion of Sylvia Plath's verse, and the lyrical prose of Langston Hughes. Each poem, a window into a different soul, resonated with her own experiences, her own struggles and triumphs.

Yam sliced it open slowly, hands trembling. Inside was their book. “The Art of Staying.” Cover: a sunflower. A crooked shelf. Two mugs—one chipped. And behind it all, the suggestion of a fan, mid-spin. Franc stared at it like it might whisper back. “Feels unreal,” Yam said. Franc flipped through pages. Some with artwork. Others with Yam’s poetry. Their story—wired beginnings and all—now bound in matte finish. “I think this book breathes,” Franc said.

The edges were frayed, the spine cracked with use. “Sometimes,” I said, closing the book I had been reading and placing it on my lap. He stepped closer, just enough to place the poetry book on the table near me. “Read this,” he said simply. No ‘please.’ No explanation. Just a command, like everything else in this place.

But here, under the soft hum of old lights and surrounded by paper and ink, it eased. She moved toward the back room, flipping the CLOSED sign even though the door was unlocked. Technically, they didn’t open until ten. Technically, she didn’t care. Back among the shelves, she let her fingertips drift over cracked spines and dog - eared corners. Each book whispered differently. Some loud, some quiet. Some didn’t whisper at all. But one — near the middle, in the poetry section no one ever touched — felt warm. Warmer than it should’ve.

A young girl, not quite tall enough to reach the sorting tray, was assisting in piling up the warm pages. "They sound like poetry," Lia whispered. "But with directions." She wasn't addressing anyone specifically, but the man folding pamphlets at the next table inclined his head. "That's the idea," he said. "Poetry endures. So does purpose." Outside, a cart of snacks rolled past—kutsinta, banana cue, rice cakes in banana leaves. The vendor paused, glancing in through the window. “You’re printing the memory books?” he asked. “Yes,” Lia said. “Want one?”

I only felt a deep sense of satisfaction. Dylan's tears fell. Suddenly, he looked up and lunged at me, grabbing my neck. "Fiona, it's you! You poisoned my parents! You killed them!" His grip was firm. Soon, everything went black before my eyes. Fear gripped my heart as my hands clenched tightly. Bernice rushed over, desperately trying to pull his hands away. "Dylan, stop! This has nothing to do with Fiona. In fact, she's been running around trying to help today. Don't be ungrateful!"

“I just wanted to change the environment a bit. You’ve gotten your wolf dragon now. So there is nothing taking us back there.” Nyxoria looked down at the worn-out book still in her hands, her fingers gently running across the rough, faded cover. “So, are you the owner of this book?” she asked curiously once again. Ora stepped closer and gently took the book from her hands, flipping it open with practiced fingers. “What do you think?” she asked. “These are poems. Very old ones.” “Do you understand the writing? The language looks strange to me,” Nyxoria asked, tilting her head.