My poem

Looking up a poem that represents me is quite difficult, but when you find the right poem, you know. I was looking around my room the other night to see what represents me. I looked for awhile and then decided to start reading, hoping it would get me thinking creatively, so I could find out what represented me. That is when I realized that books, far away places, lost kingdoms, hidden relics, and ancient civilizations represented me. I didn't know hoe to search the web for a poem like that so I searched until I found one. That poem is "and yet the books" by Czesław Miłosz. I first read it and I didn't like it at first, but as I continued to read it I liked it more and more.

And Yet the Books 

And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings,

That appeared once, still wet

As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn,

And, touched, coddled, began to live

In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up,

Tribes on the march, planets in motion.

“We are,” they said, even as their pages

Were being torn out, or a buzzing flame

Licked away their letters. So much more durable

Than we are, whose frail warmth

Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes.

I imagine the earth when I am no more:

Nothing happens, no loss, it's still a strange pageant,

Women's dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley.

Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born,

Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.

Czeslaw Milosz