The Scriptorium's Breath

In halls of hushed antiquity, where dust motes dance in gold,

A silent symphony resides, stories untold, yet bold.

Through towering shelves of shadowed wood, where ages softly sleep,

The leathered spines, a silent choir, profoundest secrets keep.

No vocal sound disturbs the air, no rustle, sigh, or plea,

Yet whispers rise from every page, for those with ears to see.

The murmur of a scholar's thought, a poet's fervent plea,

The ghost of laughter, tears of old, a forgotten dynasty.

Each brittle leaf, a whispered prayer, a truth in ink enshrined,

A touch reveals a universe, a wisdom left behind.

The scent of age, a subtle balm, on quiet, searching breath,

Connecting souls across the void, transcending life and death.

Here time itself becomes a scroll, unfurling slow and deep,

And in this sacred, silent space, eternal spirits sleep.

A gentle hum of ancient minds, a knowledge ever vast,

The library's deep, soulful sigh, forever built to last.