Amidst the quiet woods, where whispers cease,In the shadowed realm of time’s gentle hand,Robert wanders through the starlit fleece,Embracing the world, both vast and grand.The winding paths he tread with careful grace,In fields where golden hues and shadows play,Each line he wove a tender, timeless trace,Now echoes softly in the dusk of day.The birch trees stand, their branches brushed with white,As silence wraps the earth in tender sleep,The frost, a silent witness to the night,Where poets’ dreams and memories softly seep.Beyond the walls of winter’s cold embrace,Beyond the verses carved in frost’s own breath,He walks, a gentle smile upon his face,In lands where poetry transcends its death.