They speak in whispers, soft as dreams,
In words that ripple through the seams
Of time, unnoticed, yet they rule—
Unseen, uncrowned, a quiet school.

 

With ink-stained hands, they draft the laws,
Not with the ink of paper’s cause,
But in the hearts they boldly spark—
A revolution, fierce and stark.

 

The kingdoms rise, the cities fall,
To rhythms in the poet’s call.
Their lines create the very air,
The soil beneath, the stars that glare.

 

The world may scoff, the world may doubt,
Yet poets carve the world’s great shout—
Not with a sword, nor coin, nor crown,
But with the words that take the town.

 

Unseen, unheralded, they weave
The threads that bind, the webs they leave,
And though the world may turn away,
They shape tomorrow from today.

 

For poets, the architects of skies,
Are building futures with their eyes—
Unacknowledged legislators,
Crafting dreams that outlive slayers.

 

In The Wise Owl: A Monthly Magazine,
Where ink and artistry convene,
The literary light burns bright,
A beacon through the darkened night.

 

Creative minds that dare to soar,
Aesthetic wings that open doors—
The poets’ truth, their silent fight,
Now seen through pages, glowing bright.

 

In realms where Literary dreams ignite,
And Creative sparks take fearless flight,
Aesthetic visions paint the sky,
A world reborn through the poet’s eye.