The incomplete book

Under the smiling face of the moon

The nomads wandered by

We were tired, we wished the search would end soon

For our tired legs needed to stop by

The streets were unnamed, with no guide or map

We roamed about in the dark world

But it lead us, the light of the hurricane lamp

To a hut, chalked out by the moon

We  knocked the shabby door of the hut

And we saw nothing but a book

And a feather stained with ink, spilled on the desk, but

There was no one who lived in the room

I lifted up that heavy book

So old, torn and shabby

I turned the dry pages, to have a look

At what was scribbled in there

My eyes ran through the words

Which were the best lessons I have learnt

There were feelings and deeds in every word

But I found that it was incomplete

An old man came in with age in the face

And hair as white as snow

With cracked hands and faltering face

He managed to say “Hello”

He looked at all what he had earned

And he read our thoughts, so deep

He told us “Learn what you have not learned”

He wrote the last words and went to sleep.