past an elaborately carved alabaster door
at the end of a gilded westmost corridor
next to draped yellow chrysanthemums
(that sit stoicly on a marble column)
there is a set of bound burgundy tomes.
they are thickened with age and dust-
and inside of them is everything.
everything we know
everything we have known
and everything we will know.
they are the eyes, the ears, the voice,
and the word.
my fear I think,
comes with wondering
who were the men who wrote they knew nothing,
until they wrote they knew everything of the world?