I Suppose

If every book

Filled with words

Became blank,

If the trees

Sacrificed

Themselves to serve

The stories,

If every hand

Chose a pen

And began writing,

There would never,

In the whole world,

In all of history,

Be enough books,

Enough trees,

Enough hands,

Enough room

For all that

Could be written.

Enough time

For all that

Could be told.