Seven books he knows,
seven books he read.
In my father’s village,
were seven books.
He read em all,
seven times a day,
seven days a week.
One day,
news made its way.
A man in the next town had
another book.
My father journeyed on
in search
of the eighth book.
He traveled for seven days.
Reviewed passages he knew in his head
seven times a day.
So when the eighth book came,
he wouldn’t forget
the seven he knew.
After seven days,
he reached the man,
and asked him for the book
for twenty-one days.
Seven days to get home,
seven days to read,
seven to return.
The man refused him the book.
And my father never knew,
but those
seven books.
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