In the quiet corners of forgotten libraries,
Where dust settles like ancient snow,
There lie the whispers of sages,
Their voices hushed, yet enduring.

From scrolls brittle with age,
Ink fades but meaning remains,
Silent mentors on parchment wings,
They flutter through the epochs.

An old oak stands, gnarled and wise,
Its roots entwined with stories untold,
Each leaf a verse of forgotten counsel,
Rustling softly in the twilight breeze.

The moon, a silver sentinel,
Hangs low over a...