In shadows cast by moons so pale,
There walked a man, a wistful tale.
His face was lined by time’s cruel art,
A poet cursed with a frozen heart.

His name was lost to wind and sand,
A whisper swept from mortal land.
Yet whispers clung where silence grew,
Of what he was, and what he knew.

A voice he’d had, once pure, once bright,
Its verses danced in dawn’s first light.
With words he’d stitched a world in bloom,
Yet now they wove despair and gloom.

For his gift, a blessing once so dear,
Became a curse the world would fear.
A poem penned in fleeting grace,
Foretold destruction’s cruel embrace.

The mountains sighed, the rivers dried,
The heavens wept, the stars all cried.
Though ink was spilled with gentle care,
His lines foretold the deep despair.

The people turned, their hearts grown cold,
A poet once, now a story told.
“You bring us ruin,” their voices burned,
“Be gone, or face what you have earned!”

Banished far from lands of light,
He wandered realms of endless night.
Through empty plains and forest bare,
A ghost in flesh, a weight to bear.

Immortal now, his fate was clear,
To walk alone for year on year.
No songs to sing, no words to share,
A muted cry in the silent air.

Yet in his heart, a flicker stayed,
A quiet hope that wouldn’t fade.
For though the world had cast him out,
Its beauty lived, of that, no doubt.

Through cities lost, through ruins grey,
He roamed beneath the break of day.
His shadow long, his steps so light,
A figure framed by endless night.

He saw the rise of empires grand,
Their banners bright, their iron hand.
Yet time would take their splendor too,
And leave behind the morning dew.

He saw the lovers, young and free,
Make promises by the whispering sea.
And though their joy would dim with years,
He saw their laughter conquer tears.

His silence bore no harsh intent,
He watched, he learned, his spirit bent.
A witness to the world’s refrain,
Its fleeting joy, its tender pain.

One stormy night, as thunder roared,
And rain upon the earth was poured,
He found a child beneath a tree,
Her eyes as sad as eyes could be.

Her hands were clasped, her shoulders low,
Her tears like rivers, soft and slow.
The poet knelt and touched the ground,
A quiet way to share profound.

With careful hand, he wrote his thought,
A truth that time itself had taught:
*"The stars still shine, behind the storm,
The world will heal, and hearts grow warm."*

The child looked up, her sobs now still,
Her sorrow bent by quiet will.
A faint light broke through clouds above,
A silent gift, a wordless love.

And when she turned to find his face,
He’d vanished, gone without a trace.
Yet in her heart, his mark remained,
A spark of hope where pain had reigned.

Through villages and towns he roamed,
Through castles high and fields unhomed.
Where darkness clung, he left his mark,
A flame of hope within the dark.

In ruins lost, a maiden wept,
Her broken lyre beside her kept.
Once strings of gold had filled the air,
Now silence held her in despair.

The poet came, his steps so light,
A shadow wrapped in silver night.
He reached into his tattered cloak,
And golden thread the silence broke.

With hands so sure, he fixed the strings,
Restored the lyre, its song to sing.
He wrote in dust beside her seat,
*"Music lives where hearts still beat."*

She plucked the strings, a trembling sound,
A fragile note, yet so profound.
And as her song began to rise,
The stars returned to weeping skies.

He left before her thanks could come,
A silent gift for hearts gone numb.
Yet through her song, his name would spread,
A whispered tale where none had tread.

Through years uncounted still he strode,
Upon a lonely, endless road.
For every soul his silence saved,
Another weight upon him laid.

A traveler by a fire bright,
Once saw him there beneath the night.
A poem left half-formed, undone,
Lay waiting for its missing sun.

The poet knelt and traced a line,
A spark to make the verse divine:
*"Even the silence holds a tune,
A hidden hymn beneath the moon."*

The traveler stared, their heart alight,
And watched the poet fade from sight.
The words transformed their simple song,
To something vast, enduring, strong.

And so, the poet moved again,
A shadow lost to mortal men.
But everywhere his touch would go,
A seed of hope began to grow.

Though cursed to walk through endless days,
And live unseen in twilight’s haze,
The Silent Watcher left behind,
A legacy of heart and mind.

His poetry no longer bound,
To ink on pages...