In books of old are accounts of the library.
In books of new are theories of the library.
On the archaeological site are its ashes.
In memories of old are uncovering its bones.
In memories of new are questions,
That the library can't answer anymore.
The city of myth is sand and a grave of bones and paper.
The paper disintegrates upon touch.
The bones can never yield enough.
And the words couldn't be translated anyway.
Because the library is no more.
A library that wasn't treasured in its prime, because it existed.
Now it's mourned and worshipped.
Because it's lost to time.
We build a new library.
The words fly into the cloud.
We agonise over numbers.
In memories of old, is mourning what we don't know.
In memories of new, is fear of losing what we know.
But the library can fall again.
If the library isn't of paper and bones.
Can anyone prove that it existed at all?
YOU ARE READING
The Raven: Prince of Iron and Blood.
FantasyThen she is given everything she has ever wanted, power, money, and status, except love... Then she captivates the eye of the Crown-Prince. Torn with his love for a beautiful young aristocrat, a handsome slave clings for the power of freedom. But...
