"The Spellbound Pages"

In twilight’s hush, upon worn wood,

An ancient tome in silence stood.

Its pages curled with whispered age,

Yet danced like spirits on a stage.

From inked-down dreams and silent lore,

A silver flame began to soar—

Not fire, but light of woven spell,

The kind no tongue could truly tell.

Each letter rose with breath and grace,

A glowing trail through shadowed space.

As if the thoughts once trapped inside,

Refused in silence to abide.

No hand did turn the fragile sheet,

No breeze had caused this book to beat—

It pulsed with life, a soul set free,

A story’s light, eternally.

The words were spells, the spells were stars,

Escaping time’s forgotten jars.

Their fragrance: dreams, their rhythm: rhyme,

Their wisdom echoing through time.

Oh, reader bold, beware the gleam,

For books can spark more than a dream.

They hold the pulse of those long gone,

And turn the dusk to magic's dawn.

So listen well, when books do sing,

They’re not just bound in papered wing.

They're gates to realms both near and far—

Where every page births one more star.