In the quietude of night, the pen begins its dance,Across the page, it weaves a dreamlike trance.Its ink, a river flowing, deep and dark,Crafts stories from shadows, leaving its mark.With gentle strokes, it captures fleeting time,Transforming moments into rhythm and rhyme.Through whispered secrets and silent sighs,The pen reveals worlds beneath the skies.In solitude, it finds its voice so true,Unfolding tales both old and new.Each line a bridge to realms unseen,A journey where reality and dreams convene.Yet, in its silence, it holds a power vast,Binding the present with echoes of the past.For in the hands of those who dare to write,The pen becomes a beacon, a guiding light.