The tales of today's mystery,
Of battles fiercely fought and won,
And battles lost before the sun.
It'll speak of hearts so brave and true,
Of love that's tender, love that grew,
Of friendships born and friendships spurned,
The lessons learned, the bridges burned.
In ink and pages, it will weave,
The dreams that in our minds conceive,
The hopes that soared like eagles high,
And fears that whispered, shy and sly.
Tomorrow's scribes with quill in hand,
Shall etch our joys, our tears, our grand,
The quiet whispers of the night,
The shouts of joy, the poignant plight.
The tales of kings and queens and knights,
Of peasants, paupers, in their fights,
The rise of heroes, common folk,
In lands of yore, in every nook.
The whispers of the ancients old,
Their wisdom, stories to be told,
Their warnings, echoes in the air,
Of futures, of the world's despair.
Tomorrow's scribes shall pen the truth,
Of battles silent, battles brutal, truth,
The kindness that we've shown to strangers,
The courage in the face of dangers.
The sonnets soft, the verses strong,
Shall resonate in hearts so long,
Their rhythms beating with our own,
Our legacy, in words well-known.
The books will pile, the libraries grow,
With every chapter, line, and row,
The saga of our human race,
Its beauty, flaws, its fleeting grace.
Tomorrow's tales shall live and breathe,
A testament to what we've achieved,
In every genre, every tongue,
Our history, forever sung.
So let us live with open heart,
And let tomorrow do its part,
To tell our story, high and low,
The narrative of the world we sow.