The Forgotten Typewriter

 

In the ruins of time, where dust and decay conspire, lies a forgotten typewriter, its keys rusted and tired. Once, it sang symphonies of ink, tales spun with desire, now it rests, a relic of memories, silently mired.

 

Omar Khayyam’s Quill:

 

"The quill dances upon parchment, ink flowing like wine,

Inscribed with verses of longing, secrets of the divine.

Each stroke a universe, each word a celestial sign,

As time weaves its tapestry, our stories intertwine."

 

William Wordsworth’s Whisper:

 

"Nature, my muse, whispers through the broken keys,

The typewriter’s soul echoes with forgotten reveries.

In meadows of imagination, where wildflowers tease,

It once composed sonnets to the wind and ancient trees."

 

Together, they lament:

 

"Oh, typewriter! Your clatter once echoed in cafes and halls,

Where poets gathered, hearts aflame, within your walls.

Now, your faded ribbon holds echoes of forgotten calls,

And ink-stained memories linger, like autumn leaves that fall."

 

So, let us raise a glass to this relic of yore, a silent witness to dreams, love, and lore. May its spirit endure, though its keys are no more, In the poetry of time, forever intertwined and galore