The quiet of a library

In the hush of ancient halls,

Where silence softly calls,

The whispered rustle of a page

Echoes through the timeless stage.

Rows of books, in steady lines,

Guarding knowledge through the times.

Their leather spines and fading gold

Hold secrets, stories, yet untold.

A gentle breeze through windows wide,

The quiet hum, the thought inside.

A whispered breath, a fleeting sound,

As minds, like rivers, swirl around.

The scent of paper, ink, and dust,

The quiet hum, the gentle trust,

That here, within these hallowed walls,

All time and space, it gently stalls.

In every corner, still and vast,

The echoes of the present pass.

The world outside may rush and race,

But here, there’s time, there’s stillness, grace.

A quiet world where voices cease,

Where minds can wander, rest, find peace.

And as the sun begins to set,

The silence lingers, soft and wet.

For in this place, so calm and wide,

The soul can wander, seek, and bide,

In the quiet of a library,

Where time stands still, and thoughts roam free.