The Old Book Poem by Arvind Srivastava

The Old Book
It lies on the table, buried in dust,
an old book,
unaware of the electric meter's worries.
Its pages are yellowed,
like streetlights fading by the roadside,
each word holding a time that paused,
when mornings began with the newspaper.

Today, people rushing by don't notice it,
in the glare of screens, it seems to fade.
Yet something lingers within,
a truth that doesn't drown in the TV's screams.
In the empty days of lockdown,
it quietly kept company,
when the world outside shrank.

The faint smell rising from its paper,
now lost in plastic packaging.
Memories of childhood rain,
locked away in OTT subscriptions.
This book, perhaps no one will open now,
but it silently speaks,
of climate's pain, of garbage's weight.

Far from the dazzle of e-commerce,
it doesn't wait for an order.
Beyond the pace of machines,
it stands with time,
asking the mind to pause for a moment.