In the busy streets, where there are blinding glass doors,
I came across this rustic wooden gate, as if it was old by scores.
There weren’t any offer signs or warnings like on those luring ones,
As if it manifested itself to intercept my day’s chores.
There was a small glass window to peek through.
At the risk of trespassing, I did too.
The door justified the interior,
Old tungsten bulbs, chairs and tea pots came true.
The reception was odd for sure,
Handed me a book without asking
And escorted me to a quiet corner by the wooden contour.
This moment, have I been always dreaming?
The book, title faded beyond legibility
Had a rather familiar smell.
Intrigued by this familiarity,
I couldn’t wait to read what it had to tell.
I read and read a bit more
Only to find every line coming back to age.
I knew the end of the story for sure
And such was the case, when I flipped the final page.
Why this book? Why would he give me this book?
I decided to ask the receptionist in vigour and haste.
The chair was empty but there was a bookmark,
Flip to the verse before we disassociate.
“Life will be good after today,
This book will guide you through your sorrow.
I know we will meet again someday,
For I am you from tomorrow.”
Moral: Only your old self can teach you about your mistakes.