The invention of Printing press in the 15th century brought a revolution across the globe because it enabled knowledge sharing more quickly and widely. Since then civilisations never looked back. But today, try imagining a world without books!
--Write a short poem or quote staring with " A world without books"--
My 2nd Pod I'm extremely happy... Thank you so much @mirakee and all beautiful souls who read this❤️(alphabets are lucky for me) _________________________________________ Appraisals, arise and awake to appreciate apostrophes which belongs to beguiling sky of brewing bruises.
Confidence, comprises canister of coruscant commands to delineate dilemmas of one's heart and mind.
Eternity, elaborates essence of forevers, the forbidden forevers fabricated to be forgotten.
Gratitude, graceful greeting for the gallant efforts which are put in hibernating hopes of heartbroken home.
Imperfections, irreplaceable inheritance which (in)complete(s) me with juvenescent joy justifying my self worth.
Kaleidoscope: knits, kindles and erase distance between longing souls and love liberates longings to luminate life with serenity.
Meditation: mastering my morales with discipline and concentration where nestling nostalgia nullify and present joy invades me.
Optimism overflows from the opulent outline of beliefs where one Practices principles of preaching persistence.
Quintessence: quipping quality of reflecting (im)perfections, where Renaissance revive to reconcile reverberation of last birth, and Sanguine sunsets hold saffron sky To teach time the value of itself by the hands of treasured tomorrows, and Ushering universe utters the epilogue written by the last breathe of today.
Voracious vehemences welcomes wisdom by following xper Xena's.
Youth yearn for bright future and you yourself are the pride, zestful zephyr of enthusiasm blows within you to exemplify life for the zillionth time.
It was your effervescence, That was a suction pull for me, That drove me from infinity to you, That helped me cross intangibility of nature, It was your itch, that kept me on edge, Even after dying.
It was the last walk, Last it is, And the stigma of loneliness it drained, It was the dream I dreamt for days and nights In the obscured death I made.
Was it spring, or was it a summer? I asked often when I passed this lane. The dreary desert it became then, No songs of cuckoo ,no vendors and hawkers But enlivened the dead path your brushing feet, The dust, the pebbles and the lonely trees.
In the deafening silence in the scantness of Sun, While the world rest is off to sleep, It's the tainted heart I carry with me, Till the point I walk to meet, The dead leaves and shattered ones, Knowing that they would curse me, Yet I hope for the soothing voice, To spring up and console me.