In cloister'd hall by candle's glow so mild,
A monk doth scribe, in solitude, beguiled,
With quill in hand, he draweth lines so fine,
Illuminations bright, in stillness shine.
The scriptorium's light, a beacon's ray,
In darkened age, 'tis wisdom findeth way,
Hope, a spark within the monk's pure heart,
Guideth his hand in lore and sacred art.
From parchment's scroll, a scriptorium springs,
Where learned men in shadows ponder things,
To keep the lore, the wisdom of the age,
And bringeth forth new dawn, on gilded page.
Thus knowledge’s flame and hope's soft, gentle spark,
Shall lead us forth from ages cold and dark,
For in the quiet night, 'neath heaven’s span,
A monk's fair hand doth light the way of man.
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