In the quiet of the night, it whispers low,
A pen glides softly, setting thoughts aglow.
Upon the paper, dreams begin to grow,
As ink spills secrets only hearts can know.

Through battles fought within the mind’s deep fold,
The pen, a sword, its stories to unfold.
With every stroke, a tale is bravely told,
In black and blue, the soul’s own wealth of gold.

It captures tears, and laughter’s fleeting grace,
Sketching life’s journey, every line in place.
A silent warrior, in this quiet space,
The pen preserves the time we can’t replace.

So let it write, through joy and sorrow’s blend,
Each page a testament, each word a friend.
For in its ink, our voices never end,
The pen, forever, our faithful, guiding hand.