Unopened, unburned –these books were not meant to burn 
Dusted deep beneath a tower of dread,
A labyrinth of pages, twisted astern,
Ashes clinging where the fire once fled
These books were not meant to be burned

The aisles still smell of mice and churn 
Of muddy footprints, of heavy ghosts 
These books were not meant to be burned

Their pages longed to be turned – 
Their stories ached to be read, 
Not to be burned

The shelves are cracked
They’re made of wood
Put fire to them, they just burn
The ghost of each tale haunts this place 
These books were not meant to be burned

Unwritten poems, forbidden yearns –
You hear them whisper, soft and sad 
These books were not meant to be burned, 
But to be read
Not left for dead