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.