In the quiet woods where whispers dwell,
A poet’s soul finds its gentle rest.
Among the trees, his stories swell,
In verses scribed, his spirit blessed.

The paths he walked, with snow and leaf,
Now echo softly with his tread.
In solitude, beyond belief,
He finds his peace, where dreams are led.

His words, like frost, on morning’s breath,
Adorn the world with timeless grace.
In life and art, even in death,
His legacy time can’t erase.

So on we tread these roads he knew,
With every step, his lines we trace.
In every rhyme, the morning dew,
A tribute to his lasting place.