From fire-lit caves to marble halls of Greece,
the tongue has spun its thread through war and peace;
each line a seed, each word a fire-forged blade,
to carve the truth no tyrant’s hand can fade.

The ancients claimed that verse was breath of gods,
a bridge from mortal mud to golden sods;
it shapes the air, it bends the mortal ear,
turns grief to stone and love to something clear.

It bears the whispers, secrets wrapped in rhyme,
a message crossing borders made by time;
the Greeks called it the breath of gods and madness,
a sacred chaos—beauty wrapped in sadness.

The pen becomes a loom where thought is sewn,
in silk of metaphor and blood of bone;
it lifts the weak, it chills the tyrant’s might
and gives a voice to throats once choked with stone and blight.

We write to burn a map of time’s vast sea,
to bind our ghosts, to name what yet may be;
to paint the beats beneath the human skin,
and catch the storms that rage too deep within.

For poetry is a secret, mirror, flame,
it crowns the nameless, gives the lost a name;
it tears the veil between the now and then,
and calls the dead to walk again.

From ink to tongue, from ear to eye,
it teaches how to live before we die;
no single truth, but many, woven tight,
a human lantern in this endless night.