Oh, my sadness is insurmountable. I've been sitting here, forlorn, for centuries. I wait eagerly for someone to flip through my pages again, but nobody is in sight.

My dear Margaret was the last one who read my words. Whose hands touched my pages. Since then I sat here, by myself with dust attacking my happiness.

I sit here in this bookshelf that's now rotten. Once shiny, now waiting to fall apart.

Oh, cruel time! You left me here, to disintegrate in my misery! Forlorn in this forgotten part of England. Waiting for someone to open me again or at least put an end to my suffering and set me on golden flames.

And as I eulogise the past and denigrate the present, a man walked through the rotten door, carefully stepped on the destroyed floors and grabbed me from my shelf.

I awoke cleaned up and some girl was flipping through my old pages as she exclaimed: "Oh, my! Some girl in the 15th century, Margaret, even annotated this copy! We must film a flip through commentary!"

And the two showcased my pages, I had felt seen for the first time in hundreds of year. Afterwards, I was placed on a new bookshelf and new faces walked and opened me daily. 

I stay on my shelf quietly, no longer forlorn.