In the quiet of dawn,
Shadows yawn,
As the tome turns over a page,

Here no leaf is torn,
none too worn,
For every side is an age,

Each whisper of wind,
neatly tinned,
nothing assigned backstage.

Each life is drawn,
be he king or pawn,
politician, fool or sage,

Heartbeats recorded,
the clean and the sordid,
As the ink bleeds through veins on the page.