Too precious those words, to reside on mere paper. No, a knife for once shall be mightier than the pen.
Fleeting conversations twixt strangers carried out in ink that aches to be wiped off.
Years go by, those books of wood that tell tales not tall, but simple truths-yet soaked in pain, hunger and sorrows of forgotten years of a neglected age, remain author less.
They scream “reminisce!” ;Silent laments are seldom heard.
Like echoes and everything transient,
They fade away with the clock, hand in hand.