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.