In the quiet of the night, the pen takes flight,
Scribbling dreams on the canvas of time.
Each stroke, a whisper, a promise of light,
In the silent symphony, every word, a chime.

Through battles fought and victories won,
The pen remains a steadfast guide.
With ink that flows like rivers run,
It captures tales we cannot hide.

On parchment pure, it dances free,
Telling stories of love and sorrow.
With every curve and line, it weaves,
The hopes and fears of tomorrow.

A simple tool in a world so grand,
Yet holds the power to inspire.
The pen, with grace in hand,
Lights the spark of endless fire.