My mother stacked books till the ceiling grew tall,
a forest of paper that swallowed the wall.

Some conversed of kingdoms, some thundered of wars,
others spoke gently through half-hidden drawers.

Some stories were riddles, some heavy as stone,
some laughed with a child, some grieved all alone.

Hope didn’t live in fate or in chance,
but in books that awaited my curious glance.

No story was banished, no tale was denied,
I walked into pages the way rivers collide.

I never knew hunger, I never knew lack,
for stories would sprout like green blades at my back.

- Neha Sharma