The pen is mighty, still and deep.
It hides where silent secrets sleep.
With strokes, the threads of fate are spun,
And wars are lost before begun.
A king’s fierce wrath may scorch the skies,
But ink holds truths no sword denies.
The quiet pen, though calm and bare,
Holds storms no tyrant dares to dare.
They say the pen is mythically supreme,
Yet silence holds a sharper gleam.
A blade may flash, its moment brief,
But words outlive both crown and grief.
A sword may win the blood-stained field,
But pens can write the wounds to heal.
Where steel demands, the ink implores
And wiser hands may close the doors.
The king bears weight upon his blade,
In sleepless nights and plans he’s made.
But sages speak through feathered quill,
And bend the future with their will.
Though swords were forged to guard and save,
They often lead us to the grave.
But pens walk paths where wisdom stays
In ink, the dawn of brighter days.