(image courtesy : Google)
On a dusty road that led nowhere
Stood a small chamber, unclear.
A grilled window, a half broken door.
As if a clot, not anything more.
But though it appeared so from far
It was anything, I’d say, but a scar.
For in it, was a different world
Old, bleak, yet with wonders curled.
Smell of paper, light of oil
Stains of ink and files piled.
An old man sat in the front
Burdened by duty but not blunt
Lines of age criss-crossing his face
But with his glasses, he was all grace.
Whispering to himself while wrote
Anything came, he made a note.
A letter for the maiden who was no more.
A telegram for the soldier now a lore.
A mail from a village drowned in rain
A postcard from a town in Spain.
In one corner stood a bent figure
His hands moved with so much vigour
A ‘stamp’ and ‘scratch’ and ‘scratch’ and ‘stamp’
The music of it, never going damp.
But on and on, as days went by
The chamber began to slowly die.
The scent of paper began to fade,
And the light, slowly, took a darker shade.
Nothing now for the ‘no more’ and ‘lore’.
Not a thing from the broken door.
The murmurs and rhythm dropped low
It needed help but how could one know.
For it sat on the road that led nowhere
Which is now haunted by a silence so rare.