The Librarian Poem by Isadora Quagmire

I knew an old man, once, whose weary eyes,
From life's long span held many fading sights.
Too many years had left their silent trace,
A quiet weariness upon his face.


His voice was soft, a whisper, always low,
He spoke of dreams where distant horizons glow.
He gazed afar, where only thoughts could roam,
Reminiscent of a distant, unseen home.


He dreamed of lands his eyes could only trace,
A cherished memory lost in time and space.
He held a goodness that he would not claim,
A quiet virtue, far beyond mere fame.


He wrote with longing, wrote with joy and pain,
A treasured story he'll never tell again.
He cherished every tale, both new and old,
With wisdom deep, and courage to unfold.


His given name I never truly knew,
I called him 'Librarian, ' a title true.
To wider world, his fame he never sought,
But in my mind, his image dimmed for naught.


When late at night I'd wander down the stair,
I'd find him lost within the fire's glare.
He'd sit and think, with concentrated grace,
The tranquil warmth upon his wrinkled face.


The flickering light would gild his silver hair,
And softly touch the wisdom etched with care.
What boundless worlds his gentle mind possessed?
What ancient secrets in his soul found rest?


He'd bring his stories to life with tender art,
The words a melody within his heart.
What hidden tales behind his eyes remained?
A universe of lore, superbly framed.


Alas, from that old armchair did he go,
To distant lands where bitter winds would blow.
And there, a foe, with malice in his hand,
Struck down his life in a far and distant land.


A gentle soul, whose fate was not his due,
His story's pages not yet writ anew.
His books unfull, his treasured words now ceased,
Where will his countless, whispered tales find peace?

I will always remember that good old man,
Though the world may forget his kind, dear face.
Etched deep in my recollective span,
His memory holds a special, cherished space.