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“A Story in the Ink "Can the past arise from the grave? If not, then what is in a story? A tale, a hallowed ground where silent memories still remain, the bones among the heaps of dust. 'Break, break, break!' it says, The story, to the sleeping tomb, and the ink falls, the spoken word, to bloom and blaze in oblivion. Beneath the soil, they lay asleep, But the trembling hands wove at last, There they woke, living voices, There they walked in a land of light.” — Jayita Bhattacharjee
A Story in the Ink
"Can the past arise from the grave?
If not, then what is in a story?
A tale, a hallowed ground
where silent memories still remain,
the bones among the heaps of dust.
'Break, break, break!' it says,
The story, to the sleeping tomb,
and the ink falls, the spoken word,
to bloom and blaze in oblivion.
Beneath the soil, they lay asleep,
But the trembling hands wove at last,
There they woke, living voices,
There they walked in a land of light.