Ode to a Typewriter's Legacy

In quiet, musty room where time stands still,

There lies a relic, silent, cold, and gray,

A typewriter, its keys once vibrant, now so still,

A mute witness to tales of yesterday.

 

In worn and battered frame, its history rests,

Each key a memory, each stroke a sigh,

It spun the dreams of hearts and minds expressed,

Beneath the pale moon and the azure sky.

 

With every clack, a universe was born,

Of love and loss, of hope and whispered fears,

Through days of golden light and nights forlorn,

Its ink-slick ribbons traced the passing years.

 

O, Time! Thou art a thief of fleeting grace,

Yet here, within this dust-clad scribe, I find,

A testament to lives and loves embraced,

To stories etched within the human mind.

 

Omar's wisdom whispers from the keys,

"One moment in this life, so brief, so dear,

Is worth more than the wealth of centuries,

More precious than the finest wines or cheer."

 

And Wordsworth's gentle soul in nature's glow,

Reflects in every tale this scribe has told,

The beauty in the mundane, the ebb and flow,

Of life's great symphony, in whispers bold.

 

O, ancient bard of steel and ink and dreams,

Your silent voice still echoes through the years,

In musty rooms where memory softly gleams,

And in the heart, where stories stir and sear.

 

So let us pause, and honour what you've penned,

Each word a star that lights the boundless night,

For though your voice may cease, your tales transcend,

In the eternal dance of dark and light.