Submerged Time

In the belly of the submerged library
time stretches out, heavy as lead,
shelves anchored to the bottom of memory,
the water holds the breath of hours.
The pages breathe, lungs of paper,
every syllable bursts into a rising bubble,
words that become bubbles of air,
brushing the face of those who listen through the halls.
The weight accumulates like sediments on shoulders,
the volumes breathe together, in a hushed chorus,
every threshold is a tide that pushes thought,
and memory remains tight, between the bubbles and the salt rain.
When a bubble rises above the surface,
the world seems higher, less heavy,
but the library remains, slow and luminous,
we learn to swim among words that breathe.