A child unknowingly
Collects postcards
– from many wondrous locations
Such as the playground, the park
And even from behind the bars of the cot –
Unsigned by the sender
And relayed through the postbox
A black letter box that opens her latch
For dawn till dusk
And lets in what is time-stamped
And fate unrobed

And in this collection of
Obese color and thin gloom
There lies a tradition
Of what is firmly placed
In a drawer of collectibles
When the bridge between the unknown
And the known is seemingly
Just a jigsaw puzzle of quanta
Traversed through an interface
Of radiance and impulse
When a few tentacles
Of the brain, stretching outwards
Reels in everything unblinded by sight
And unforgotten by memory

And isn’t a postcard
A memento for an outlander
Embracing a culture alien to his?
Just like a child is merely a tourist
To a strange culture
Called life…..


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