He walks down the columns of stacks,
And looks not at the books,
Nor stops or pauses, but wonders
Aimlessly, gazing at the floor, getting
An occasional drink of water.
His hair is gray; his shoes path worn;
He wears the aisles
Of columns down. His clothes are
Ragged and tell the tail of a once
Held prime, gone by like white splashes
On the rocks of a river bed.
His hands clasp behind his back,
Stray not far, nor need to,
For the tails are told, he has
Gotten old, and in love has lost not a few.
Many paths, and many ways, and
European trains have cut paths
In his plans to lead the world;
To seek, he has ended, the meek upended;
He once cared, but helpless knowledge
Fills his prejudice and, helplessly, he
Wanders, up and down the aisle between
The stacks, gazing to the ground.