In the quiet corners of a forgotten library,
Dust dances in beams of gentle, golden light.
Shelves stand as sentinels of stories untold,
Whispering secrets in the language of ages past.
Each book a universe, bound in leather and ink,
Pages rustling like leaves in an autumn breeze.
Characters breathe within the confines of their worlds,
Waiting for a readerâs gaze to bring them to life.
The scent of musty paper and worn-out bindings,
Lends a timeless perfume to this sacred space.
Words flow like rivers, carving paths through silence,
Crafting bridges between solitude and wonder.
Here, in the sanctuary of boundless imagination,
Dreams unfold in symphonies of eloquent prose.
The literature lives, eternal in its whispers,
A testament to the endless power of the written word.