Both men began scooping sand in their cupped hands, digging frantically for the book. Saliva dripped from Maota's mouth, but he didn't know or care.
Finally they stopped, exhausted. They had covered a substantial area around the hole. They had covered the complete area where they had been.
"We killed it," the old man moaned.
"It was just a book. Not alive, you know."
"How do you know?" The old man's pale eyes were filled with tears. "It talked and it sang. In a way, it had a soul. Sometimes on long nights I used to imagine it loved me, for taking care of it."
"There are other books. We'll get another."
Maota shook his head. "There are no more."
"But I've seen them. Down there in the square building."
"Not poetry. Books, yes, but not poetry. That was the only book with songs."