I’m not a digital age writer,
I belonged to the age of quills,
Scribed on birch barks.
I lived alone in the woods,
Wandered in search of writing material,
In the middle of a dense forest.
I’d pick a leaf now and then,
That fell off from the branches,
Every six to eight weeks.
Never struggled for writing prompts,
No dearth of inspiration,
Writers’ Block is a new life-style disease.
Never knew of grammar,
Rules and order of writing,
Never knew of borders,
Separating land from land,
And land from sea.
Never used commas.
I never felt lost,
Never knew of dates and days.
Felt the changing seasons on my skin,
The changing colours,
Never knew their names.
Couldn’t describe time and nature.
Never used adjectives,
Didn’t have to exaggerate anything.
The river which ran through my forest home,
Is the deepest body to hold waters.
Never knew where it originated from,
A mountain, a glacier, or a hot-spring,
Never thought of tracking its course!
If I wasn’t happy with my writing,
I’d wash the leaf, dry it and rewrite.
Never knew what editing means.
I never knew of faith,
Of another one,
Dwelling in the endless sky.
May be because I lived alone,
And nobody introduced him to me.
I never saved them,
The dried leaves I picked up,
The barks I peeled,
Of the betulaceous trees.
The dried leaves flew away,
With the winds which brought merciless rains,
The birch bark was eaten away,
By tiny ant like creatures.
I didn’t lock my writings,
They have a life time too.
I have no regrets,
I’m not a digital age writer.
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