Verse 39
I catalogue the drowned city because nobody else remembers the alphabet used by its statues.
I catalogue the drowned city because nobody else remembers the alphabet used by its statues.
Shelf A contains crowns recovered from rulers who believed elevation was protection.
Shelf B contains children's toys, which accuse history more efficiently than crowns.
The library doors open inward though the sea presses from every side.
Our oldest tablet says the city was built where Neptune promised never to rise.
Our second-oldest tablet is a lawsuit concerning the first.
Every midnight a school of silver fish swims through the philosophy section and rearranges causality.
I objected once. The fish cited precedent.
A marble cat sits above the archive entrance with one paw missing and both eyes intact.
Divers say its eyes follow them. I tell them all archivists do this.
We have records of twelve apocalypses, nine of which were later reclassified as municipal failures.
The royal temple lies beneath three meters of silt and one thousand years of embarrassment.
Its god is still accepting offerings, though nobody remembers what department he governs.
Sometimes bubbles rise from the sealed vault and spell names in languages not yet invented.
I record them in pencil. Eternity has poor revision control.
When the city finally surfaces, I suspect tourists will complain that the cafés are closed.
Until then, the archive remains open by appointment to the dead, the lost, and properly credentialed jinn.