Sahadev liked the pen more than the sword. When the sword pierced someone, their mangled bodies writhing in agony, their screams echoing their pain, it was not a pretty sight.
On the other hand, when the pen came in contact with the paper, it bled so beautifully into the paper. It almost adorned the paper. The pen could write, make art, and so on.
The pen is indeed, mightier than the sword, he thought, twisting his pen, gifted by his long deceased father. He never wrote with it, wanting to save up the ink for later. And so, he took a piece of paper, and started writing away to his father. The paper patiently let him.
In the end, he burnt the paper. He knew he had poured his soul into the paper, and it was only fair that the part of him he had poured into the paper reached his father.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry and Drabbles
PoetrySilver light flows from the moon, guiding your each step through the dark forest, thick with foliage. As you walk further, the dense forest gives way to a huge building, which looks to be abandoned, deprived, of contact with the human world. You mak...
