After a distance and a fashion,
there is a maid
and her abode.
Wherein she, the archivist,
boxes cleverly and with
some binding intent.
To save herself, or a memento,
but safe she muses illusory,
boxes, chambers, rooms.
Pages down, scrolls command
you May blossom, to now provide
starting Hart blooms.
All the while waves pound
furthest shores, without relent,
those once molten stones.
The ones, some simulated hearts,
you hoisted up and ported,
they endure, not eroded.