Ink and paper, bound in time's embrace,
Silent partners in a dance of grace.
One, a liquid thought that softly flows,
The other, still, where every moment grows.
Ink, the pulse of dreams in midnight’s hue,
Scribbles secrets only shadows knew.
Paper waits with patience, pure and wide,
A canvas for the musings that reside.
Together they weave tales both grand and small,
A testament to how ideas enthrall.
In every stroke, a story’s gentle rise,
In every line, the echo of the skies.
When ink has faded and the paper worn,
Their essence lingers, wisdom reborn.
For in their quiet partnership we see,
The power of creation's legacy.
©twisha ray
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