Unopened

 

I stare at

A bunch of unopened books,

Quietly entombed

In their parcel posts.

No, not tsundoku –

This is even worse.

The books have not even

Been taken out of their shrouds.

 

But I look at them again

And wonder,

How strangely they remind us

Of our own selves –

Our true visages -

Hidden, locked away deliberately

As the world gets to see

An ugly shroud

 

Our true values

Never seen, even read

But parcelled away

Awaiting a perfect moment

When a perfect world

Has the perfect time

To read our perfect pages

Alas, don’t we know the truth?

 

That the perfect moment

Will never come

And we will continue to conceal

Tomes of our values,

Spines marked in letters of gold

Book jackets of many colours

For moments

That may never come

 

The fault – as much with the reader
As with the book,

Both ignorant of true value

As dust settles on unopened pages

Of unseen books

I wish we had the audacity of a scissor

To tear the envelope

And reveal what is the truth

 

And be happier if disliked

Than be lost,

Seen at least by a few eyes,

Thumbed, dog-eared with

The battle-scars of being read

Rather than be unscathed

In an unopened envelope

Lost in the unwritten ink of the world…

 

9^th April, 2025