Meeting an old friend,
After a long, long time
Is like sending yourself a
Postcard.
Only that it gets lost,
Somewhere in the middle.
And wanders off with mails
Of other destinations.
It is in transit for years and years,
And soon you doubt,
That in the first place,
Was it even sent?
It only thrives on memory,
Resting in the unfrequented corners
Of your evolving mind.
It is an unparalleled proof,
Of the good old days.
It is that funny nostalgia
Which appeals to all
The Five Senses.
It is like that treasure,
From a different lifetime.
One stormy day
It does finally arrive,
Bringing the essence
Of all the fine places it has absorbed.
To be greeted, however
Not by familiar faces.
Instead, cherished and celebrated
By, for all that is worth,
Strange people from the future.
