Their shelves have always held mys­tery. Resist the urge to touch —
cloth and paper and paint. I am close enough to breathe in Catullus
and all his earthly urges, now sealed and almost erudite;
So many spines here, leather and lust, dirt and distress.

From Alex­an­dria to al-Qaraw­iyyin, from papyrus to pixels —
Where know­ledge is gathered, the people draw power.

The lib­rar­ian knows the sigils and secrets,
Knows the liturgy and the locations
Reveals the way and the wonder

In Toledo, the ancient stones whis­per to me of scribes,
And ink smudges, of late nights and lovers in the arcades.

The church con­jures monks and marginalia,
While Borges and Calvino and Eco huddle
Whis­per­ing to each other in a corner

Every lib­rary, it seems, hides a portal to another,
Where you can lose your­self, trans­por­ted through time,
From scrolls to chained boards to the quiet hum of screens
Echoes of volumes and his­tory, of algebra and philosophy,
Hypa­tia and Fatima El-Fihriya, schol­ars and revolutionaries.
It is no sur­prise that they demand silence like other holy shrines.