The Bookseller

by Ali Znaidi

Every day in the same place
in the same pavement
under the same eucalyptus tree
the bookseller sells books in his stall.
When he bends among the piles of books
his face radiates with glee.
Piles of used books enfolded in dust,
piles of new books that smell
intoxicating ink,
piles of silent words,
piles of slumbering ideas
waiting for lovers
under the urge of intense lust.
Fragrant ink, writers’ blood and sweat
mingle in his stall,
mature enough for a harvest of diverse ideas.
Though tired, the bookseller’s face still
radiates with glee.
He seems like a fluttering butterfly
spreading specks of pollen
& pollinating hungry souls and spirits.
The bookseller never misses a day.
He is so brave and courageous
to continue selling books in this age
of high-tech.
Every day in the same place
hope blooms like a smile
on a sad face.
This world is still beautiful
& books will never perish,
despite the tyranny of hyperlinks
because the bookseller’s hands
still smell ink.