You find my books here Written upon the whisper Of an electrical thread, Nay less,A whisper on a wave That passes through your headOn its way to your device.But I tell you that what I write Is written in heavy volumesUpon indestructible paperBound with adorned leatherAnd illustrated with vibrant colors,And that those books are guarded In the unseen library aboveWhere they will not perish.I write, not for the day,But for the age.I write not to the few,But for each and every soulThroughout the width and breadth of eternityWho might be benefited thereby,And I trust the unseen hand To dispense my workThrough unseen carriers of lightTo each and every soul who longs for what I am,Or rather, what he has made of meAnd may just as easily destroy.But know this, each word,If it is His, if it reflectsThe library on high,Has always beenAnd will remainWhen the libraries of menDecay and crumble away to dust.And I think, why write, if not unto this end?

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