words for the aged (a future historian)

his fingers soften, now
his eyes slip down the priceless pages
of books from centuries past
does he glean a word?

his ears ring, his eyes fog
the sun beats down on his neck
as he squints at forgotten utterances
and imagines the voices of those lost

his back bends, now
you say he smells of ancient ink
of gallic acid and soot
of the cankers of oak trees long ago

his heart swells, his mouth dry
in the spring mist of ancient cities
surrounded by the furor of past worlds
he asks himself what any of this can mean