The old song will not declare itself

In the town with the many bookshops.
On every corner, at every wall. A stall,
a box, a closet. Children's books, poetry,
encyclopaedias, scientific works. You
feel it, you smell, you breathe it. Letters,
words, sentences, paragraphs. Like a
Chelsea flower show. But with books.
Something is amiss. My footsteps in the
narrow streets sound to hollow. The
shadows behind the curtains move too
hasty. The sun is in the sky. As a devout
Icon painter. So, that's not the reason.
I find a terrace in front of the old bakery.
A lady with eyes as bright as refreshing
water takes my order. She asks how I'm
doing. And if I also would like to have
some homemade apple pie. With real
butter and cinnamon. Of course I want.
Then she hops to the table next to me.
Like a cheerful bird. I sit in the cool of
the crooked chestnut tree. Still with my
question. What's wrong with this town?
What is the void? What the shadow?
Is it because it is over? The era of the big,
important, musty, sacred paper books?
Is that what I feel? The melancholy? The
farewell? Meanwhile the waitress talks
to new customers. Beautiful stories, nice
words, uplifting phrases. And funny,
when she brings the apple pie, I forget
the sadness. How she chatters, how she
cackles. I'm sure. What will remain in
this dead end streets. The lively words.