The Maker
s̸i̸n̸c̸e̸ MCMXCVII a̸ 🇧🇹 p̸h̸o̸j̸a̸ o̸n̸ t̸h̸e̸ s̸c̸e̸n̸e̸

In the golden glow of the morning sun,
A song begins, its journey begun.
It dances with dewdrops, whispers to trees,
A melody carried on gentle breeze.

With every stanza, a story unfolds,
Of dreams and desires, of mysteries untold.
It weaves through the meadows, glides o'er the streams,
A symphony of hopes, of endless dreams.

It sings of the seasons, changing and true,
Of springtime's promise, of skies so blue.
In summer's heat, it hums with delight,
A tune of warmth, of endless light.

As autumn leaves fall, it mourns with grace,
A melody tinged with a bittersweet trace.
In winter's chill, it softly sighs,
A lullaby whispered beneath starry skies.

So let the song carry us, lift us on high,
Through valleys of sorrow, under cerulean sky.
For in its embrace, we find our reprieve,
This timeless melody, in which we believe.

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