Am I only a collection of letters spread upon a page
whose dimensions are naught but of length and width?
Then the word became silent and walked in the procession of sentences and paragraphs.
Then a page awoke and said:
Am I only a shred of paper containing words crucified upon my breast,
whose beginnings and endings are always vague and nebulous?
Then the wind came and turned the page and closed the book.
Then the book said:
Am I only a collection of papers standing amidst an army of books
upon forgotten shelves, keeping within my heart tales of long ago?
And then a shelf spoke and after him, an entire library.
Only the trees outside remained silent.
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