I cannot recall when I was born
But I have been wandering in this labyrinth
For as long as I could remember.
I know of no other world other than this maze,
Where infinite books line eternal shelves –
And I am in a journey where I don’t know where to go
One of the books tell of a story:
That there is another open world outside, unlike this place.
Maybe I am walking to find a way out.
I have met the blind Librarian once,
A crazed man believing himself a prophet
Mulling over tomes of braille and false Bibles,
Books all older than me by centuries.
He said that the labyrinth was a universe expanding,
And he fed me a book, and in hunger I could not refuse,
and told me I am now the book,
My skin suddenly showing tattooed typography
of a language I cannot understand,
text so dense I cannot see my skin anymore.
I did not see him again, and I hide myself in thick robes.
The other seekers of this labyrinth,
Chase after me with swords and knives,
thinking that I am what they are looking for.
They will skin me open, they believe, that I am the Book of Answers,
that I am a Door to the End of this World,
the death of this eternal labyrinth.