The Silent Symphony

Walk through the doors and leave behind,

The noisy world, the rushing mind.

For here, in quiet, row on row,

A thousand different worlds can grow.

No instrument, no spoken word,

Just silent music, felt, not heard.

A symphony of inky art,

That plays directly on the heart.

This book is drums, a marching beat,

Of hero's brave and steadfast feet.

And that one is a violin,

A tender tale of might-have-been.

A thriller is a blaring horn,

A mystery, a haunting, mournful tune.

A love story, a flute's sweet sigh,

Beneath a vast and starry sky.

You turn the page, the movement swells,

With magic only reading tells.

You travel far, you laugh, you weep,

All while the world outside is asleep.

So do not think it's merely paper,

This is a sonic, grand caper.

A concert hall without a sound,

Where endless melodies are found.

The library, a sacred space,

Where every soul can find its place,

Inside the silent symphony,

Of the immortal, printed sea.