In twilight dim, a weathered shed stands tall,
A sentinel of time's relentless trawl;
Its walls embrace a world to few in sight,
Where dust and silence cloak the dying light.
An ancient forge and anvil hold their place,
Where fiery hearts once forged a molten grace;
The bellows lie defunct, their labored breath,
A haunting echo in this realms of death.
In rusty corners, relics of the past,
Await forgotten dreams at last;
A cracked and brittle plow, a scythe's worn blade,
Remind of harvests from which none were made.
Through tattered window panes, the moonlight flows,
Caressing tools that whispered once of woes;
A plane, a chisel, and saw laid bare,
The marks of hands that shaped a world so fair.
Here stories linger with a silent plea,
Of humble crafts and dreams, one yearns to see;
Whispers of a man whose toil and sweat,
Breathed life into the wood he would beget.
In hushed reverence, I tread these hollow floors,
Awe-struck by echoes from forgotten shores;
And though the shed may crumble and decay,
Its spirit lingers, never fades away.
Oh, weathered shed, your secrets yet untold,
An emblem of a time grown frail and old;
In your hallowed space, I find a grace divine,
A bridge to worlds where craft and dreams align.