One day, all of us will vanish in nothingness

Leaving our Pickwick Papers

To be blown by the wind.

Some of us had hard times

And still others had great times on earth.

Our memories fade not, the memories

Of things we saw in the Old Curiosity Shop

Or the books that we read, like,

Nicholas Nickleboy, Barbara Rudge and so on.

For Many our lives were like that of David Copperfield,

Full of search and challenges, pain and poverty

From which we emerge just like the lotus flower

Rises from dirt and mud

For Little Dorrit does not remain little for ever.

We do have Great Expectations from this life.

We say to ourselves,

We are not living in this Bleak House for ever

And our Mutual Friend, god knows it, feels it.

With artistic flamboyance, he sends mercy and grace.

Our city of the past grows into a city of the future.

Mesmerized, we ponder

A Tale of Two Cities.

We know Oliver Twist will not ask for more

For his little bowl will be full for ever.

However, not all our dreams and aspirations

Will be fulfilled in this very life.

Some will have to be left halfway

Just like Charles Dickens was halfway

Writing his book, Mystery of Edwin Drood

When he died, leaving beautiful memories behind.

pramila khadun