A page from an old scrapbook,

A page
From an old scrapbook,
She upon discovering,
To me took,
A simple page
That withstood time,
A simple page
With simple lines...
A little yellow tinge it had,
And smell of eucalyptus
I think I had that too,
From that page with yellow old hue,

I read those lines,
Vernacular,
Simple,
A few lines just,
Honest, candid,
Reminding me of my teens,
My boyhood,
And of a city,
Which had so many telephone lines
Overhead, crisscrossing the sky,
And trees with branches spread
In winter making art on the landscape,
By their shadows,
And pavements,
The page from the scrapbook reminded me of them too,
Upon which we had walked, hopped,
Even danced,
Quite unashamed,

I just looked at that old page
From a scrapbook,
And images came dancing to me,
Images so full of fun,
Images so so young,

'Hey!
Where have you found this?'
I asked her,
'You guess!'
Was her answer,

'Please don't quiz me on this!'
I pleaded, helpless,

But she,
Being she,
Never gave me the definite clue,
'Read it?'
She asked,
'Yes...but...'
I was unwilling to part
With the old page,
Of my teens,

'It is mine!'
She asserted,
And took it ,
Almost sweeping away,

I looked at her,
From my desk,
I just looked at her,
Going away.

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