A tiny box is hidden far away in a corner of a dusty cupboard. Feels like I have stored away memories of a time gone by. Out of sight yet never out of reach. Mere tokens today, what once meant so much? Yet more than just tokens. For was it not just yesterday when you had handed it to me, furtive eyes scanning the room, nimble hands thrusting it into mine? How much sand has flown through the hourglass since then? Neatly folded, fragrant with nostalgia; I rub off the dust to read. A hand I had read years ago to mock at. Only to long for it in due time. And although the turbulent land of my memories where you reside is worlds away from where I am happy and contented today, why is it that I hold on to your letter? And stranger is it not that I feel that you hold on to that copy of White Mughals? For love has died, and has burnt away all that came with it. Yet I sit reading your verses, like a postcard from a stranger written long ago to an acquaintance I'd once known.
