The Unexpressed Breath of the Library

On aligned spines, silent,
a dense shadow of words lies.
Each closed page is a curtain fallen,
but the unspoken pulse does not cease.
A library is an enchanted wood
where every trunk has a soul to unfold.

It is not silence their still standing,
but a suspended chorus, a latent whisper.
An entire universe is about to pour forth,
a river of voices awaiting its bridge.
Unread stories vibrate in the air,
they weigh lightly, a gentle waiting.