The book of books-by moi

Let me tell u a tale older than time
A tale before the imagination of humankind
Before murder became a crime,
Before ignorance became blissful,

A time of supreme serenity,
Where the glass remained as a single pane,
Where Forbidden trees ran with whispers,
Where worlds used to speak to each other,

A time where strategy ceased to exist,
Where warmth and cold had no dominion,
Where the world was neither caging nor freeing,

When exchanging socials was never thought of,
For it did not exist,
Rather ‘do I have the pleasure to see u here tomorrow’

When pain came with iron not vocal instruments,
When the heart strings used to sing instead of throats,
When love weren’t thought of as transactions-A failed deal.

This book is the book of books
A book before anything recorded,
Older than time itself
Older than when symbols were sent down,
When they were told to mount,
When they were sent to you,
And u mocked them; nothing new,

You laughed at the messengers,
Crowned them in thorns, burned their pages,
Called their voices delusions,
Their silence-madness.

You drowned the stars with cities,
Split the rivers with greed,
Built towers so high you forgot the sky,
Then blamed the heavens for not weeping,

The ink was sacred,
Etched not on paper-but on being.
Each breath was a verse,
Each gesture a glyph of divinity.

But you traded the eternal
For things that rust,
You measured the soul
In currencies and clout.

The book closed itself-not out of fear-
But to preserve what remained untouched,
Now it lives in whispers,
In the moments between moments,
In the cracks of the system you praise.

You hold screens like scripture,
But forget how to look.
You echo opinions,
But forget how to listen.

This book,
It waits not in temples nor towers,
But in the dirt,
In the womb of forgotten places,
Where silence still dares to speak.

One day,
When your gold turns to ash
And your noise turns to ache,
You’ll remember the tale
Not written with ink,
But breathed into bones.

And you’ll ask-
“Why did no one tell us?”
But the answer will rise
From your own ribcage,
For the book was always there.

翻譯

  .

I cba drawing no more

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