​Flight of poetry

« A moment was still, the wind blew
And the old books with damaged bindings
Saw their pages fly away, …
They float still, there in the air, in suspension.
Playing in the wind and intriguing the passers-by,
A call, a signal, inviting them to come
In this more and more deserted market, to
Exchange with nostalgic booksellers of a past time
Where books were still sacred.»