The dust suffocates me sometimes,

Then I realize, I’m no flesh and bones.

I was an object – that spoke once,

When the world was old.

Now I lie at a corner as a show,

To feed your nostalgia that boasts.

The memories of war, love, peace;

All that I bore within my keys,

Are unknown to this world

That holds the old with contempt,

And the new with false pride.

My old friend died two years back,

Since then I am craving for a touch,

That I miss, so much.

I can feel his touch and emotions,

That once flowed through his veins

To his fingers and walked miles

With this old friend,

But now so lone and cold.

The first love letter that he wrote,

Those words still linger within me,

But no one can see them –

As they lost there sight,

Blinded by the light.

I now wish to be sold, But I realize

Over time I lost my lusture,

Hidden behind this enormous door,

An obsolete, Typewriter.

                                                  ~ Debashish Sarkar

                                                        Kolkata, India