Stem of a quill shaped to the drop of ink
Old hands steady in alcove reflecting a glimmer of candles shadow
Surrounded by so many centuries of labored work

In the distance the hollowed stone walls moaned
this the excitement of night wind
whispering among owls stance, atop the walls as if guarding

the heart of the old man
beating, beating, beating
steady and calm as he cast character upon parchment

Black lines curved and followed his mission of evening
one
above the other

Ink sipped by time as the moon climbed higher
higher
higher until replaced by the tired

An old man placed his quill into the hole so very old and colored
With a puff of lip snuffed the flame of such a colorful candle
Carrying then, an oil lamp one and same with a seal

Walking slowly through the large oak carrying hinged iron
closing
walking…

Leaving a room filled with lives beyond countless
bound in book and file
where they never die

As he took time to sleep and gather
more black lines to ink
tomorrow.