It was with trepidation,

much contemplation,

and an encouraging shove,

that I entered the room.

Poppy seeds and wine,

aromas divine,

and clear skies above,

a gently placed tomb.

Around it and on, scribbled,

edges nibbled,

by insouciant little clots,

that inhabited the gloom.

A majestic life, behold,

history, twice retold,

inscriptions in stone,

yet, a body exhumed.

For he died with his book,

and with him he took,

the answer, the truth,

leaving silence and gloom.