The author, the pen.
The pen writing, moving,
Making the words true.
The paper, the place of all secrets.
Where the secrets are told,
Where imagination is given
Its name.
The world not knowing the secrets told.
The pen only following
Its ancient script.
The author knowing the ending
Of its true meaning.
The paper given the honor
To give the secrets.
Only one and only one
Will know its meaning
To the world.
The pen tired
Glad that it has given its all,
Sleeps out of the fingertips
Of the author.
The paper never resting till
It shows it to the world,
And so on.
Then, in the moment of true happiness
The paper will outlive its maker of secrets.
The pen will die making the story the last of its will.
The author slowly not knowing,
Forgetting the secrets of the ancient script.