The scent of leather bound books, covered in dust and the wisdom of ages – crisp paper full of words and perfumed in earthy shades by the soil of foreign lands, then again blank sheets waiting to be filled with lines and swirls traced in the sharp, black scent of ink
– and it smells like coming home.
The sound of wind chimes, the tinkling of stringed seashells in the open window, from the house next door the crackling of a small fire and a tea pot singing
– and it sounds like coming home.
Beyond windows wide open vast landscapes, a mighty desert, sheltering green hills, billowing curtains, and at night the Milky Way so clear in the sky above one might believe our planet had rings like Saturn, Jupiter and all those giants – dreams of greatness, feeling humbled by sand and stars and ocean waves
– and it feels like coming home.
(For an explanation go to the original post, please.)