The Sigh of the Unread

A book lies there, mute and alone,
On the shelf, a forgotten soul.
Closed pages, an unknown world,
Waits in vain for the first motion.
Then comes the wind, a gentle breath,
Through the shutters its spirit moves.
It caresses the spine, brushes the veil,
Lifting barely a white sky.
Turning the nothingness, it whispers softly,
Among chapters that will never open.
Reading ink never deciphered,
Of a tale still awaited, never revealed.
A faint sigh, a veil of melancholy,
The wind carries away its melody.
The book waits, mute and patient still,
For the story no one ever touches within.