There must be a library hidden somewhere
Like the ruined one in Ephesus
Or in the invisible City of Kitezh
Hovering above the yellow lake
Where the history of feeling is kept
Piled high with manuscripts and scrolls
Ranks of scribes hard at work
Passing one dead language
Into another living text
The annals of rage alone
Must take up several walls at least
With their tedious commentaries
Until you come to the crypt
Where a small bejeweled book
Illuminates itself in an alcove
Its one word love unread inside
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