The Gutenberg Children - A Poem

They sit forlorn, arranged neatly on shelves, waiting for someone

To pick  them up!  Gutenberg  children; some in gilt  and some

In  plain clothes  like  little children waiting to  be  patted  on the

Back.  They  all vary in age and  and  weight,  with  simple stories

Of  infants’  dreams  and  slippery  and  abstruse thoughts  of the

Aged,  repositories  of knowledge and wisdom - a testimony to the

Hard work of a  passionate and  patient man, one who’d given all

For copper plate  and durable ink, that would  outlast the weather

Heat, dust  and envy. Of all his works,  the Holy Writ  was the best !

They sit forlorn,   lined   neatly on  shelves,  waiting for someone

To  acknowledge  even their existence, the Gutenberg children!

Alas!  They  have  just  the  only one  to visits them, a true lover

Who  loves  the texture of the  paper pages, the   rustling  sound

Of pages  as he browses through fine print looking  for lost love.

A ballad  or a serenade printed  in  carbon black, the  voice of a

Fellow soul with whom to share feelings of joy, sadness and love!

Alas!   Where have  all the lovers and people with passion fled to?

For  none  do  visit   this  place  anymore,  ‘cept  for the crazy one!

None  do anymore visit the Gutenberg children, for  few  would  step

Outdoors for a tome. They would  rather read from devices plastic,

Bereft  of  texture,  scent,  sweat and science. The print of copper-

Plate  or  screen,  long  lost  to  the  unemotional   electronic-Print,

Gadgets  of mass-production,  without  character  feelings  or love!

And so, they view with sadness, the Gutenberg little children, at the

Sad and lone man sitting at the table, as the dull light filters through

Old, cobwebbed  dusty  windows,  remembering  times  when lovers,

Sophists and  dreamers  did visit  this veritable shrine of Gutenberg

Nowadays, a musty smell pervades the hall which was once thronged

With the well-heeled,  its lofty dimensions lost to a crowd,  each child

A favourite  patron would   pick up  and nurse through fond caresses,

Where  the Encyclopaedia would  occupy a  prize location,  its twenty-

Six  brothers  and sisters ranged inside a glass case, fondly cared for

By  the  guardian of the temple! But now, Alas! all’s lost to an age of

Digits and  process  to  puzzle  even the worthy Gutenberg himself!

And so do the Gutenberg children reside forlorn on the shelf, waiting

For someone to come back and pick them up, caress and love them.

They thus sit quietly, lining the shelves like soldiers in clear ranks,

Dreading that painful moment when they’ll be pulped or consigned

To flames, destroyed, for space is at a premium, and the hall is to be

Demolished to make way for a virtual library  and mall that will fetch

More  money than a dysfunctional museum that  too one none  visit-

‘Cept  for the crazy old man who  keeps visiting the children each day.

He looks  for lost  love  kindred souls  and  those who’d share the sad

Thoughts that  do dwell in his breast, one so sad, confused in an age

That speaks of, one night stands, discarded love, and plastic dreams!

And so the Gutenberg children patiently wait for their one visitor, that

Too, one as lost and forgotten as they themselves - a regular visitor,

A kindred soul who visits them each day, a pilgrimage to a temple of

Thoughts and wisdom, searching for the purpose and meaning of life,

Beyond the the limitations of the unemotional digits that rule the lives

Of those who wear plastic smiles and have the attention span of  Glow

Worms minnows  and tapers! But then, wait for a  few more moments -

Moments before the end of days, for should the curtain drop on the age

Printed books, and  libraries  that house  them, deserve the not a better

Send off than an ignominious sinking away never ever to be seen again?

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