Silence speaks volumes, and he is a library,   

Flooded by waters from the fountain of youth.

He is akward in speech, and uneasy when quiet,

But one of these days, he’ll uncover the truth.

On some dusty page he’ll discover the secret,

In some rare fist folio in his mountain of books.

In silence and discourse alike he’ll take pleasure,

As soon as he learns to share thoughts with a look.

He’ll flow’r in his youth, but ripen with age,

And long after he’s gone, I’ll remember his name

For the lessons he bore in his pain-stricken eyes, 

And the queer way he showed me that we were the same.

For in silence, in volumes, we pull from our shelves,

We all find the key to unlocking ourselves.