Once—words spilled like rivers,

ink coursing through valleys of paper,

their pencil etching trails in the grain,

each mark a rippling of thought.

 

Night stretched long,

lamp-light flickered like kindling.

But the mind burned— a wildfire of ideas,

embers pressed into pages,

smoke rising in the form of verse.

 

Then came the hum of glass screens,

words trapped behind a veneer too smooth for meaning.

Fingers skimmed, searching for depth,

but the letters dissolved before they could settle.

The cursor blinked like a heartbeat, steady, unfeeling—waiting.

 

A message sent. A thought erased.

The wind carried whispers—

did anyone listen? did anyone care?

 

Yet—will there come a time when silence calls us back?

When ink pools thick again, shadows stretching across pages,

each word heavy enough to leave a mark?

Will we return, not in nostalgia, but in longing—

to fire, to rivers, to permanence?