Bookcases, empty and bare,

Stand purposeless, as if in error.

Where once the walls were lined with books

Now barren shelves attract no looks

The dark store, a cavernous lair,

A shadowy shell of what was there

When we could lose ourselves with care

In stories from book-laden nooks,

Then fly away.

The empty shelves, they show their wear,

The books have gone to God-knows-where.

Were they stolen by some odd crooks

Or, like a parliament of rooks,

Spread inky wings, take to air

Then fly away.