Words etched in time,
fade even as I gaze at them,
wondering who wrote them?
when were they written?
who were they written for?
and that final question that
even History cannot answer;
were the words ever read
by anyone before me?
or am I the first reader
and maybe the last?
shall I keep this manuscript’s secrets safe?
or should i betray them?
On golden sands
between the layers of
silvery stream waves
wet quill write untold tales
Incessant gush narrates
epic in shallow voice
no presence witness
prolonged tireless task
On shrivelled shores
pebbles re read stories
to share the musing
with migrating birds.
The serene script
bloating and floating
bubbling with wishes
meandering on waves.
In its obvious merge
identity gets sacrificed
while embracing
dark ocean abyss.
© Maaya Dev
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