Pen Poem by Vera Sidhwa

The pen moved swiftly sideways,
As if in a position of racing.
My hand so still, not the pen facing,
But being carried by it.

Not on it's own volition,
This hand didn't have a story.
The pen with it's huge tale,
Had to tell it to the world.

My hand tugged by the pen,
Witnessed so much information,
That it just moved there,
Without the pen's fast motion.

This information was told to me in a hurry,
This one here was a fiction story.
This one was a tale of a wise, wise man,
Who let his pen write, what it liked,
While on the paper it rapidly ran.