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Just have to post this poem by Opher. I SO feel the same thing with my books. Sometimes I sit in the room with the bookshelves and I can hear them whispering to each other.

But Opher’s poem says it all. This is for all the book lovers out there…

Opher's World

Conversations with the dead


Today I was looking at my rows of shelves

Where I still have conversations with the dead.

Yesterday I was sharing a joke with Vonnegut and laughing silly,

Having sex in the woodshed with Lawrence,

Getting high with Kerouac in a Mexican Brothel

And shooting at fascists with Hemingway.

I speak to them through the years

And they communicate with me.

Their immortality speaks volumes.

Their words never die.

Their thoughts and dreams are precious.

Today I was looking at the rows of lives that line my mind and rooms,

That shared their imaginations with me,

Who advise me still, inspire and enthrall.

My life would be so much the paler without their words in my head.

I learn so much, am so moved, by my conversations with the dead.

Opher 27.4.2018

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