Underground Pulse

Beneath the city, the library beats without a sound,
between stone columns expands a trembling breath;
the books, closed, keep worlds of dust,
the air becomes skin that pulses in the dark.
No one watches, yet the ink breathes;
each volume swells a small lung between the pages;
the dust dances like intermittent breath;
silence whispers names already read.
The covers stretch out, sails in the underground air;
words bloom halfway between dream and memory;
a corridor pulses, lengthening the steps of darkness;
time here listens and tunes itself to the beat.
When dawn seeks the threshold, the breath stops for a moment;
then the library breathes again, more softly;
we remain invisible guardians of a life in volumes;
and the beat continues, unseen, until someone reads.