In a world where dreams pour out on pages,  
A house was built, through countless ages.  
Walls of parchment, ceilings of prose,  
A storybook shelter, where the mind overflows.

Each room a chapter, each window a verse,  
Filled with the whispers of scholars immersed.  
Ink-stained floors tell tales untold,  
Mysterious adventures in every fold.

A fireplace lit with sketched desires,  
Paper flames, yet warm as real fires.  
Soft rustles of leaves in a paper breeze,  
Crafting a haven for hearts at ease.

From its towering spire of tempera ink,  
One can see the stars align and think.  
A paper house is fragile, yet strong,  
A sanctuary where you truly belong.

Whispers of wisdom in every nook,  
Bound together by a bookbinder’s hook.  
With open doors to the land of dreams,  
In a paper house, nothing’s as it seems.