Writer's Quill

The writer's quill, a humble thing it seems, A feather plucked from some forgotten fowl, Yet dipped in ink, it spins a world of dreams, Where heroes rise and empires rise and fall. With every stroke, a tapestry unfolds, Of love and loss, of battles fought and told. It paints the scene with whispers, soft and light, Of moonlit paths and castles in the mist, Or battles fierce, where sunlight turns to night, And warriors clash with fury unrepressed. The quill guides, a silent, steady hand, To birth a world within a grain of sand. Though wars may fade and empires turn to dust, The writer's quill shall leave its mark on time, In tales of courage, love, and sacred trust, A legacy that echoes through the rhyme. More potent than a sword, a whispered word, Can pierce the heart, a truth forever heard.