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The Slate Of My Memories
The days of slate and chalk,
Are not easy to erase,
They hold memories,
Of my childhood,
Of friends and wild escapades,
Of orchards and meadows,
Brimming with fruit and fleur,
Of gurgling springs,
Bordering imaginary chateaus.

I look at the slate now,
In my middle days,
Tracing imaginary lines,
Wiped away,
I wonder how far I've come,
How far I need to go,
Before I turn back,
To the olden ways.

I hold still,
The slate in my fragile hands,
Wiping dust off empty nests,
My tremulous fingers trace the,
Lines once more,
Boarding row boats to the shore,
Paddling the last distance,
Breathing in the fragrance,
Of orchards and meadows,
Brimming with fruit and fleur,
Of gurgling springs,
Bordering imaginary chateaus.

© अतुल Purohit


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