Once upon literature,
There lived a writer,
Whose pen bled—
Every second of her day.
She had no one to listen,
So she spoke to the page—
And the page listened in silence.

There lived a great man
In the beginning of inking,
A man whose pen carved echoes into eternity.
He wrote not for fame,
But because his soul demanded it—
Every letter, a whisper from his depths,
Every sentence, a bridge between pain and purpose.