In the shadow of the ancient oak,Where whispers of the past reside,The tales of countless minds evoke,Words crafted, hearts abide.Pages turn like autumn leaves,In the gentle breeze of time,Every letter, each conceives,A melody, a silent chime.Ink flows like rivers deep,Through valleys of thought and dreams,Into the mind’s quiet keep,Where imagination gleams.Thus, in the library of the soul,Where literature’s echo rings,We find stories that make us whole,And the wisdom each one brings.