As the final stroke of ink is laid,
I set aside the quill, its duty obeyed.
The words have flowed from heart and mind,
Now it's time to let them rest and find
A place to breathe, to linger, to be,
In the silence of the page, unbound and free.

Let the ink set, let the verses pause,
Like a still pond after a storm's applause.
The letters dance in their freshly drawn dress,
Awaiting the eyes that will find and caress
The lingering echoes of thoughts so sincere,
Captured in lines, now still and clear.

So I bid adieu to the poet's task,
And let the words unfurl without further ask.
For in the stillness and the quiet hush,
The poem lingers, in no rush,
To be read, to be felt, in its own due time,
A creation complete, in its tranquil chime.

Penned by my hand on the 7th of Sarapin, in the year 950 AF.