Marginalia Roots

[Verse 1]
Ink blooms on brittle pages, a quiet seed taking hold.
A stranger's hand, a ghost, still tracing thoughts untold.
Across the years, a whisper in the paper's dry perfume,
A subtle verdigris on words that outlive any tomb.
These delicate inscriptions, a history unfurled,
A hidden common ground beneath a transient world.

[Chorus]
Oh, these marginalia, a rhizome underground.
A symphony of voices, finally unbound.
Each pencilled note, a tendril reaching out,
We blossom in this knowing, beyond all doubt.

[Verse 2]
A sun-baked window pane, where dust motes drift and gleam,
Illuminating wisdom from a long-forgotten dream.
The scions of old thinking, rooted deep in borrowed script,
A silent conversation, from which no thought is stripped.
I trace the lines, a gardener of quiescent minds,
Unearthing layered solace that time meticulously grinds.

[Chorus]
Oh, these marginalia, a rhizome underground.
A symphony of voices, finally unbound.
Each pencilled note, a tendril reaching out,
We blossom in this knowing, beyond all doubt.

[Bridge]
The city hums outside, a fleeting, urgent pulse,
But here, the slow efflorescence of forgotten impulses.
A vibrant tapestry, from ancient, living thread,
Where every planted notion blossoms in my head.

[Chorus]
Oh, these marginalia, a rhizome underground.
A symphony of voices, finally unbound.
Each pencilled note, a tendril reaching out,
We blossom in this knowing, beyond all doubt.

[Outro]
Roots run deep through papyrus, a future freely sown.
A verdant library, where stories are truly grown.