The Last Library

In a world of screens and endless noise,

Where every thought was just a click,

There stood a library of special books

That made the weary souls feel sick.

For these weren't normal books to read,

With pages made of simple ink,

These books held memories and dreams

That made the modern people think.

Each volume held a human life

The laughter, love, the tears and fears,

The wisdom earned through pain and strife

Across a hundred thousand years.

The wealthy came to buy and sell

The memories they thought they needed,

Trading stories they could tell

For empty lives that went unheeded.

They'd purchase courage for an hour,

Or borrow love to feel less lonely,

Then discard this borrowed power

And return to lives that felt like only...

Shadows of what they could be,

Echoes of what they'd once known,

Paying for what once was free

In this marketplace of grown-

Up children chasing childhood's grace,

Buying back their own lost youth,

Running in a desperate race

Away from some forgotten truth.

The Librarian, with weary eyes,

Watched as the books began to fade,

For every memory bought and sold

A little bit of magic strayed.

She saw the tragedy unfold

The more they traded what was real,

The more their hungry hearts grew cold

And forgot how to truly feel.

One day a little girl came in,

Not seeking memories to buy,

But with a curious, gentle grin

And an authentic question: "Why?"

"Why do they trade what makes them whole?

Why sell the stories in their soul?"

The Librarian simply smiled

And placed a book within her hand,

"Some truths can't be bought, dear child,

Like love that doesn't demand."

"And memories aren't things to own,

They're seeds that in the heart are sown."

The girl just held the empty book

No glowing light, no magic pages

Then gave the Librarian a look

That spanned across the ages.

"I'll make my own," the child said,

And left the library behind,

To live a life instead of read

The ones that others had designed.

And somewhere in that sacred space,

A new book started forming then

Not from the forgotten race,

But from the now, the where, the when.

For memories aren't in the past,

They're in the moments that we live,

In connections that will last,

In all the love we have to give.