The Parchment fair
At first a parchment bare,
Full of promise and dare.
When we pen as foals,
hands like messy coals.
With years the tiny curls,
turn to pretty pearls.
When the days grow old,
and the fingers cold,
through foggy lens,
and faulty pens,
scribe with old hands,
tales of lost lands.
Yet the parchment will hold,
every letter in bold.
When read from the top,
every scribble will crop.
So must pen with care,
else just leave it bare
posted by Karthik Ashok @ 8:50 AM
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