Like all of us
Through birth to death
They came, wrote and left
Through deed, text, voice, choice
But time
Being the traveler that it is
Might, just might
Erase the letters scribbled
Distort the meaning
Canonise the authors
Or worse, curse them
For history
Being the storyteller that it is
Is confined in depth and reach and truth
By the colour and the age of the ink
And the source and destination
Of the page