|
A little book
I fancied writing something a little less introspective, so I picked an object off my desk and wrote about it.
A little book sits in my palm,
Inscribed 'New Testament and Psalms'.
The Word of God, of love, of death:
Transcriptions from mere mortal breath.
We read of peace and hate and war,
But words mean what we use them for.
Man neither dies for swords nor quills,
But for the other man, who kills.
For all its lists of prayers and sin,
The power neither lies within
the pages man has written on,
Nor goes away when the book is gone.
|