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.
