Wednesday, August 22, 2007


After an year,
Opened this drawer

Dusty and misty
These books in the cover

Memories refreshed
The coffee, the juice
The impressive articles
That he had infused

These are notebooks
Short stories inside…
Cursive, hand written
All with the blue pen

Momentous silence
Swaying through the past
Nice it was, he, the guest
I, being the host.

I turn the pages,
And the mind images,
Interesting stories,
And those acquaintances

Conversations were such,
Hours had passed
Had I Realized?
Oh no, I had not.

One of the books
Has this torn tattered look
Mysterious that I am
Intriguingly, a look, I took

It is his diary,
Childhood days
Teenage crushes
And some philosophy…

The books are still here
But he has gone far away
Connections have weakened
Ages that we have spoken…
His treasure lies
Still with me
In abeyance;
I wait for him.

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