The Vatican Library
It was the last Sunday of the month,
when Providence opened its secret door,
and my longing was granted.
I walked through marble corridors
into the heart of the Vatican Library,
where time breathes softly between the pages.
I asked for only one treasure:
the Vatican Virgil,
that ancient manuscript of immortal verse.
And when it was placed in my hands,
the air shifted—
the walls dissolved—
and I was carried upon the river of centuries
into the Augustan dawn.
There I beheld him—
Vergil, the poet of Rome—
clothed in the fragrance of eternity.
I bowed and said:
“You may dwell in the past,
but your voice still sings within our present.”
From the shadows stepped Pope John Paul II,
his lips reciting verses of Latin fire,
and Vergil’s smile was the echo of ages.
He turned to me and asked,
“Which of my songs has pierced your heart?”
With trembling breath I answered:
“The Aeneid,
your epic of exiles and destinies—
it is the star that guides my nights.”
He laughed softly,
like an oracle who knows the burden of genius,
and whispered:
“Do not seek to wear my crown,
for I cannot be you,
and you cannot be me.
Walk your own path,
and poetry will be born in your footsteps.”
Then the vision faded—
a librarian’s hand rested on my shoulder,
and the manuscript closed its wings of light.
He looked at me, bewildered,
for my eyes were still lost in eternity.
When they asked,
“When did you become a poet?”
I could only answer:
“It began in the Vatican Library,
and each time I write,
I remember Vergil.”
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