The love they've rubbed is never only a cover

If we open their books it contents depth and weight

They didn't literally write, they've never used a pen

But what historically they've written can't be compare

Tired eyes they've hurriedly open

Upon hearing the child's cry, they'll look for our wound

To give handkerchief when we are sweaty

To teach us to fill our space of  innocence

As countless waves kisses the sand

The lesson they've planted to us seems uprooted by air

Their ability has also a limit

There are definitely things that they cannot fill

Our sometimes impossible request

Instead to understand, thinks our dreams were killed and the reason was them

We think we are wise, that's why we've always answered them

We think we are great, that we don't need any medicine

As the sun and the moon quickly interchanged

Time came that we've regretted

It's odd to thinks sometimes when we had gone their way

Only then we've understood the value of their book...