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Poem

Once my grandfather held my hand,
I am going to show you something, 
this secret you should not tell anyone,
I nodded in excitement as we walked towards the attic,
in one corner of attic lay an antique desk,
on top of it was a broken antique lamp,
He opened a wooden box,
it had a frayed book,
This is an old work son, written during 15th century BC,
"one of your great grandfather was a scribe,
at those times printing press was not there,
scribes would manually copy all documents"
he showed me some brushes made of reeds,
"they would dip these in ink to write,
pen was not invented by then".

That day I could not sleep,
I imagined an old scribe writing patiently, meticulously...

And here I was cribbing about few pages of homework,
that too written in bad handwriting!

Thank God! Someone invented the printing press
I can never be a scribe.

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