VII. The Reliquary of Echoes
He paused amidst a grove of glass and thorn,
Where ghosts of defunct phonemes sought a shape;
Here lay the sounds of languages unborn,
From which no human larynx could escape.
An architectural sigh of arches rose,
Constructed from the breath of orators;
In stasis sat the prose of ancient foes,
And lexicons of long-forgotten wars.
He touched a pillar of pure rhetoric,
And felt the thrum of tropes against his palm;
The air grew thick, claustrophobic and quick,
Disturbing his ascetic, stony calm.
For even here, in this sublime retreat,
The echoes of the mundane world would beat.
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