Beyond the cover, realms await, unseen,
In every book, a path to what has been.
However, here prejudice stands, with its labels in the hands,
Dismissing truths, it barely understands.
The minds that bind themselves with endless chains,
Are deaf to stories’ wisdom and knowledge gained.
They close the book before it’s fully read,
Content with titles, names, and what’s been said.
But truth defies the cages they create,
It bends beyond the lines that separate.
For every story written holds a key,
To unlock hearts and set the spirit free.
To judge an essence by labels is to miss
The depth of life, the beauty in the abyss.
The page that holds the answers lies untorn,
Nevertheless, senses stay closed, and ignorance is born.
Beneath the ink, shadows twist and creep,
Murmurs from forgotten worlds sleep.
The words, like phantoms, haunt each line,
Begging to be freed from the threads of time.
More than the surface, deeper should they dive,
For in those words, the most trustworthy self survives.
The books unopened hold a thousand skies,
And in their pages, prejudice defies.
The label shouldn’t blind crowds from the tale,
For in the written word, all hearts prevail.
To open books is more than just a task,
It frees the soul from every mask.
And as the pages crackle in the night,
A ghostly hand beckons toward the light.
No thought confined, no mortal boxed away,
For every story lives beyond the fray.
The truth of existence cannot be simply named,
It’s written comprehensively, with words that can’t be tamed.
Esther Elizabeth Racah
