K. Hassan
Papyrus quivers beneath reverent hand,
A lamp spills amber over vaulted stone.
Each line a jewel, sacred to this land,
Yet trembles with a weight no eye has known,
And hums with secrets mortals cannot stand.
Scrolls whisper like ghosts of vanished kings,
Their fibers shiver under careful gaze.
The librarian moves as though he bears all things,
Each breath a prayer to stave the creeping haze,
While sorrow coils in shadows’ hidden rings.
Margins bleed with truths too sharp to speak,
Every symbol carved with trembling care.
The vault itself remembers what is meek,
The weight of secrets none else may bear,
And bends beneath the guardian’s measured streak.
Reflections show a face long left behind,
A son emerges, stranger shaped by fate.
His hand strikes swift, as night consumes the mind,
And breaks the guardian’s heart, the archive’s weight,
Yet grief and love entwine where shadows wind.
Papyrus shatters like gold upon the floor,
The lamp convulses at the sacrilege.
Every scroll moans, each codex cries, roars,
The vault shudders beneath the trembling edge,
And sorrow rises, spilling evermore.
The librarian falls; his blood threads through the page,
A pulse remains where paper meets the hand.
His spirit melds with wisdom of the age,
A living archive no death can strand,
A presence haunting corridors and cage.
The son departs; yet something lingers near,
A tremor in the margins, spectral, cold.
The father’s voice persists in fear and care,
Whispers in ink, in shadows uncontrolled,
Turning each stolen jewel to tears sincere.
Papyrus breathes; the archive wakes anew,
The guardian moves where eyes cannot pursue.
Each secret, sacred, trembles for his due,
A pulse eternal, sorrowed, and true,
Where love and vengeance intertwine and stew.
No hand may claim the weight of what remains,
No son may steal what fuses life with lore.
The vault itself now bears immortal strains,
The guardian eternal, death no more,
A soul enwoven in the papyrus veins.
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