Harry opened the book to the first page and read:
Color Them Wonderful
How do you explain love
to the child that never knew love?
How do you earn the trust
of the one who's only ever been hurt?
How do I begin to describe
what you're holding in you hands?
A book, a portal, a passage, a journey,
poetry, songs, rhymes without reason,
laughter, teardrops, fears, pleas,
a yell, a scream, a whisper, a dream,
everything, and nothing at all.
Read it, enjoy it, burn it, or ignore it.
Blank parchment takes on life
and words dance across the page.
Things take on new meanings
when you see them on stage.
Take a little of this dreary and white
and color them wonderful-
Harry furrowed his brow in confusion. The poem seemed kind of incomplete to to him. "Hermione, does this sounds like there should be more to it?" He asked.
Hermione read the poem on the page and shook her head. "No, it's finished. The thing about poetry is there's no need for a set beginning, middle, and end. There's no real 'correct' way to write it. I think the poem ended like this for a reason. It's an introduction and the abrupt cut off is meant to entice you to read more."
Harry nodded and turned the page.
