Poem 18 from “Uneasy Verses from Difficult Times“
The books have become a worry. They’ll live long beyond my need for them. Looking at them this last evening, The pages I chase, filled with fear, Their words redacted by death As colorful lines in time blacken And I grow blind to the visions That each volume contains with each year. I would have to do nothing but read, Which I still can't properly do at this moment. — David Erdos
