No one should throw books away, you say
They are an object, sacred, a shrine
Knowledge in its purest form
Even as covers splinter and spines break
Pages flake and tear, discoloration creeps
So will you take them, I say, these books
Will you give them a home and a shelf
Falling apart though they are
But no, there is no room, not for you
But somebody must want them
Somebody will take them
Surely

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