In the quiet of a room, softly it calls,
Strings vibrating with tales untold,
Each note a whisper of forgotten dreams,
A melody weaving through the soul.

The wood sings a song of distant lands,
Echoes of journeys in every chord,
Fingers dance upon its surface,
Crafting stories without a single word.

Beneath the moonlit sky it cries,
A gentle serenade to the night,
Harmonies that warm the coldest heart,
A beacon of solace in the fading light.

With every strum, it breathes anew,
A timeless bridge of sound and heart,
Binding souls in its tender embrace,
A guitar’s tale, a work of art.