Upon the canvas pure and white,
With whispers soft in silent night,
Ink begins its timeless dance,
In a world of fleeting chance.

Stories born from thought profound,
In paper’s embrace, they’re unbound,
Carried by the hand’s soft grace,
To a dream, a distant place.

Each fold and crease, a tale untold,
In shadows cast, in lines so bold,
A symphony of silent speech,
In paper, realms of wonder reach.

From ancient scrolls to letters dear,
Every mark a memory clear,
In fragile sheets, eternity,
The paper tells its legacy.