Breath of the Library

Outside, a passed tempest lies in silence, but the library breathes.
The shelves become ribs of wind, the books are papers’ breath.
Through dust and flickering lights, the pulse extends like a slow march.
Each page cradles a word that rushes not to be born.
Beneath the shade of the passed tempest, memory lights up the page’s edge.
Thunder sets the rhythm for the room’s slow breath; the paper replies.
Sleeping voices awaken like lanterns down wooden halls.
And when the rain grows silent, only a pulse remains, alive and discreet.