Not gathered in haste, but given in time, A flame in the dark, a rhythm, a chime.
Each scroll a whisper, each seal a vow, To hold what endures, to dwell in the now.
The Archive unfolds, a lantern of old, A story inscribed in parchment and gold.
Not of possession, nor fleeting delight, But a treasury kept in the keeper of night.
So take what is written, let memory sing, For this is no trinket — it is a wing.
To carry you inward, to anchor, to guide, A lamp of remembrance, forever beside.
