You find my books here
Written upon the whisper
Of an electrical thread, Nay less,
A whisper on a wave
That passes through your head
On its way to your device.
But I tell you that what I write
Is written in heavy volumes
Upon indestructible paper
Bound with adorned leather
And illustrated with vibrant colors,
And that those books are guarded
In the unseen library above
Where they will not perish.
I write, not for the day,
But for the age.
I write not to the few,
But for each and every soul
Throughout the width and breadth of eternity
Who might be benefited thereby,
And I trust the unseen hand
To dispense my work
Through unseen carriers of light
To each and every soul who longs for what I am,
Or rather, what he has made of me
And may just as easily destroy.
But know this, each word,
If it is His, if it reflects
The library on high,
Has always been
And will remain
When the libraries of men
Decay and crumble away to dust.
And I think, why write, if not unto this end?
