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(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.

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