In the quiet evening glow, a poet's gaze Sets the world on fire with an ageless blaze. Simon, silver wisps fall like shadows long, Each strand a verse, each line a song. Sixty autumns in his soul are spun, Leaves of time rustle where tales have begun. His hair like willow branches bow and wave, Whispering secrets only rivers crave. With words he dances on the parchment stage, A bard defying both time and age. In every rhythm, in every line, His heart beats steady, a timeless chime. Pens might falter, ink might fade, But Simon's stories are forever made; For in his lines, the magic is sown: A legacy of dreams, eternally grown.