I used to write where ink could smudge,
And paper drank each word like rain,
Where margins held a penciled grudge
In slants of hurried, human strain.

Now, letters glow in silent rows,
No scent of pulp, no weighted page—
Just digital, systemic prose
Inside a sterile, glowing cage.

Still, I recall the press’s breath,
When biting type would leave its mark,
As signposts charting life or death,
And cursors blink and trace the dark.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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