Sweet, ruff, tender book of time
Give me a story, Give me rhyme
Something that pulls me over the written line
I can see the busy pen sliding over the paper
Every single move becomes black ink
History in a safe, hiding cover
Judged by it’s unique looks
The return to the previous pages
can’t erase the printed characters
Traveling trough numbers of ages
Won’t fill up the blank
A journey with no forecast
No-ones’ voice will say the ink is dry
It’s to strive for progress
To perseverance