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In moon-washed aisles, hushed, narrow, deep, ancient tomes stir from their sleep; their murmured spells through stillness creep~ the library stirs with hidden light. Soft runes ignite the shadowed floor, ink trembles with forgotten lore; each page unfolds a hidden door~ the library stirs with hidden light. Ghost-lamps drift where shadows bend, guiding the seeker like a friend; time folds itself at each book’s end~ the library stirs with hidden light. And when I breathe its sacred air, I feel old magic everywhere, as if the shelves themselves still care~ the library stirs with hidden light.
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