A book loving friend of mine read
Whatever he could lay his hands on
He found time from no time to read
It did not matter, if it was a crowded bus, or a tram
Loved to read at one of his favourite roadside bookstall
Books were his resort; he slept over it
He bought books, more than he could afford
Hated lending them, lest they got lost
Booklover he was, not a book trader
His possession, a few books, with notes on the margin
He read a lot, still a lot remained
My friend used to say
“If you want to read me, read the books I read
Read at the earliest; don’t keep them for the future
Future seldom comes”
Before entering the paradise my friend must have asked the gatekeeper
“Does paradise has a place where one can read and live again?”