The old bell jangles as I come through the door 

A familiar step down to a dark wooden floor

A petrichor from pages hangs in the air

Its musty aroma telling tales of their wear

On shelves, are bindings crafted by hands

Lost & forgotten to times shifting sands 

And others, whose fingers caressed those old pages:

A DNA echo still lingers through ages

In a corner sits Mis...

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