Pagelight
The library is a well.
Everyone drinks here without coins,
without proving they deserve water.
Come inside.
The old man reads his newspaper by the window,
teenagers cluster around computers like moths to light,
a mother spreads picture books on the floor
while her children build towers from blocks.
This is the hearth where strangers warm themselves,
the table where rich and poor sit down together,
passing knowledge like bread,
hand to hand.
Outside,
the world charges for everything,
a chair costs money,
warmth costs money,
even standing still in the wrong place costs something.
But here the door opens.
Here the librarian says How can I help you? to everyone,
no matter what's in their wallet or their past.
This is what democracy looks like up close:
bodies in chairs,
hands on books,
people teaching themselves to grow
toward light like seeds in a shared garden.
When the library closes,
we scatter back into the cold world.
But tomorrow the doors open again,
the lights come on,
and we return to this last free place,
this harbour,
this home we're learning to protect.
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