Second Hand

Two scores and seven years ago,
thou, a book, which I now behold,
came to be.
I found thee at a thrift shop, last week.

Upon thy front page, lied following message,

'Happy Birthday,
With All I Have,
xxx'

O Opuscule, narrate me your tale!
What unfortunate circumstance did force thou master
to part away from thee?

Was it of the dark toothed devil,
which snatched your soul, 
to ferry it to another world?
Or perhaps the person who gifted you thus,
lost importance for thy master,
and the receiver threw you away?

Or some unfortunate larcener stole it?
Nay, a thief seldom care for written words.
For if he cared, he won't be a thief thus. 


This mark, spelling 'Foyles', thou bear,
makes thee a resident of London.
I assure you, I googled.
Then what were thou doing
in a thrift shop of Daryagunj?



Oh Opuscule, tell me of thy journey.
Did thou traveled by the air vessel?
alongwith, perhaps, your master?
and he, by fate, lost thee amongst errands.
Or perhaps he left thee by choice?

Tell me next of thy master, if thou could.
Was he a man of stature, 
or perhaps of literature?
Was he was of religion
or deep contemplation?
For thou talk of teachings of Almustafa.
A wise prophet of Orphalese.

And what of the gifter?
Did she hold thy master in affection;
or thee?
(I assume female,by beauty of the message)
Perhaps she loved thee both,
and wanted this happy bond to happen.
But then what unspeakable happened,
that thou ended up in this forsaken place?

Oh, if books could talk!
They are nothing but a means
for the mankind to talk of themselves.
Oh! If only!