Utdrag ur dikten "Books" av Billy Collins
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From the heart of this dark, evacuated campus
I can hear the library humming in the night,
a choir of authors murmuring inside their books
along the unlit, alphabetical shelves,
Giovani Pontano next to Pope, Dumas next to his son,
each one stitched into his own private coat,
together forming a low, gigantic chord of language.
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I see all of us reading ourselves away from ourselves,
straining in circles of light to find more light
until the line of words bexomes a trail of crumbs
that we follow across a page of fresh snow.
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