In the quiet chambers of its folds,
Lies a story waiting to unfold,
Each fiber weaves a silent tale,
In whispers soft that never fail.

Upon its surface, dreams take flight,
Ink-stained journeys through the night,
A canvas wide for thoughts to trace,
In gentle curves, they find their place.

The paper listens, never speaks,
Yet in its silence, wisdom peaks,
A confidant to every pen,
Holding secrets time and again.

With every crease, a memory stays,
A witness to both night and days,
In its embrace, the world is vast,
A timeless keeper of the past.