I often bowed down my head

over the books, piling with dust.

My look was fixed in far past

or in far future.

I communed with the shadows of rulers,

builders and priests,

who turned into dust a long ago.

Ghosts from fantastic dreams

of famous writers visited me.

Philosophers and poets

left their imprints in my soul.

But the books aren’t people.

Then you appeared,

my friend from my dreams.

I didn’t recognize you immediately.

I didn’t understand that I met you at last,

but when you asked one of my questions,

I felt that I’m not alone already.

Your words returned the smile on my face.

You found new ways in the life for me.

Thank you for everything,

which you do for me.