A scribe, a scrivener,
In the melancholia of dismal life,
Dwelling in the solitude of a country cottage,
Away from the cacophony of urban life
Away from the rambunctious and obstreperous shrills
Removed from the provincially moribund and the cadaverous around him.
In his idyllic Camelot of books and pristinely enchanting meanderings,
His only gratifying recourse – his fountain pen and a bottle of sherry.
His fecund mind and perspicacious gaze,
Culls out tales, parables, aphorisms and apocrypha hidden beneath,
Myriad of intricately voluminous thoughts,
Motley, sundry assortment of expressions.
But its the creative flair of the scribe that revamps and refurbishes them
Entangled and entwined with his own solitary yearnings and the sufferings of the world.
Tribulations and implications abound in the world unbeknownst to him,
Bearing laconic semblance with the unremarkable odyssey of his own life.
He jots down his voluble thoughts on a parchment,
Emblazoned they will be on this piece of paper till aeons.
Timeless reminder of the undaunted human spirit.
A small paragraph in the tome of the history of mankind.