Born in a corner, desolate and numb, or on a slate shaking with indignation;
Sometimes, on a feather of enviable calm and sometimes, from sheer indecision.
Your womb has many colors and so, does your skin;
But in each of them, I stand witness, you are my kin.

On days of cantankerous mayhem, your pages have turned into sweet music;
Your lyrical heart has soared high and drenched my soul in notes, fantastic.
On innumerable nights, forlorn and coughing on the tobacco of loneliness,
Your life-like protagonists have stepped forward with patches of friendliness.
On occasions of joy and plenty, your mirthful episodes have multiplied my share,
And I have carried, secured in my heart, your jolly anecdotes everywhere.
During periods of debilitating pain, when immobility even has been my curse,
Your hope has provided me with wings, and I have no longer felt that worse.
In seasons of winter, when the memories of intimate spring have held me tightly.
I have swayed in your luminous chapters of nostalgia and lived vicariously.
When huge, dark doors have seemed to intimidate me with their untameable locks,
Your wisdom has turned into magic keys, triumphing over most, if not all, of its shocks.
From the time my little hands held your spine, nearly three decades back,
I realized a dream was quickly expanding into the veins of my heart.

Nothing has changed since then, believe you me, my dear, dear friend,
I continue to be bewitched, cajoled, saddened, humoured and inspired by your trend.
The world calls you a ‘book’, and have anointed today to celebrate your stay;
Oh but little do they know, buddy, its your say, all the way, every day!

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