THE TALE OF A HUMBLE SCRIBE

                                 

             

                             He looked quite simple, quiet and old

                           In the corner of the office threshold

                           He sat down with a pair of pens and pad

                           The only possessions that all he had;

                           Noting details from his customers there

                           Nodding and smiling in his handwriting fair

                           A glow of satisfaction there he found

                           He did his work in earnest as if duty bound;

                           He took whatever his customers gave

                           With a complaining look he did never crave

                           Though he seemed a learned man, none dared to ask

                           Why he did choose this work, a simple task;

                           His manners signified his breeding fine

                           Perhaps destined he was, not yet to shine

                           Once very rich, he lost his flourishing trade

                           Too naïve in trusting his cunning comrade

                           Steeped at once in huge enormous debt

                           None helped him in need whomever he met;

                           Deserted by his friends and closest kin

                           His family’s help he did never win;

                           He found himself alone on pavement bare

                           In busy crowded town none seemed to care;

                           Nothing remained with him to pledge or sell

                           In the shade of a tree he used to dwell;

                           His old age barred him from strenuous deeds

                           Detesting a wandering beggar’s life to lead

                           He sat in a pensive mood near the threshold

                           Of an office with his knapsack and garments old

                           A rustic came in and begged him to write

                           A form in proper way with details right

                           The humble scribe though sad, took his pen and file

                           And wrote the form in neat and effective style;

                           The rustic did thank him with a hearty smile

                           And gifted two pens with a handshake agile;

                           The scribe then felt a ray of hope in heart

                           He can survive in spite of his bitter lot;

                           The bench near office became his sole work-place

                           He helped others in writing with a smiling face;

                           The tea-stall owner became his constant friend

                           Gave him some food and some money to spend;

                           Whatever he got, he did never complain

                           To stand on his own legs, his objective main;

                           A few friends and sympathizers he got

                           A simple contented life he sought

                           When any friend praised his calligraphy great

                           He smiled and said “oh, not so fair, my fate.”

                  

                                     ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

             21st September, 2018                  Somaseshu Gutala