A book is like a skillful archer
Straight aiming a certain central message
As an arrow swift to seek its target
Dispatched from an inner taut stringed bow
In hope to see its bull's-eye in a reader; but
Can an arrow find a way through a forest
Unless it first come from a pure aimed bow?
Can it strike my heart its own needed blow
Unless it first has stricken he who sent it?
Light and life come only out of dark and death
Poem from a
Sequence:
A Rain of Booklight
Part 1 # 37
© Judith Evans
Deverell, 2014
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