Amid the streets where furious tempests burned,
And glass lay shattered by the lawless crowd,
One hallowed place was strangely left unspurned,
Its quiet shelves untouched, its voice not loud.
They seized the gaudy spoils of fleeting day,
The screens that dazzle, garments bright and vain;
Yet passed the door where living spirits stay,
And left immortal riches to remain.
O fools! To scorn the fire that does not die,
The boundless light no riot can consume.
Though kingdoms fall, and empires sink, and lie,
The written word shall rise from every tomb.
So books endure, while fleeting plunders rust;
Their wealth is flame, but this is deathless dust.
ref: https://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2011/aug/12/reading-riots-waterstones-looted-books
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