By Nayani Sharma
When the night owl shrieked at one,
I shoved awake—my breath undone.
A silhouette hovered near the bed,
Its eerie presence, how much I dread.
"Who art thou?" I whispered low,
As coal cracked and glowed in the stove.
A shadow stood, so wise, so frail,
a receding hairline, a gaze intense.
The Bard of Avon—Oh, I knew him well!
Was this a dream or destiny at play?
For William Shakespeare stood abreast,
with a quill pen and a scroll in his hands.
"To be or not to be," he sighed,
As if lost in thoughts, yet dignified.
His words on Macbeth, Hamlet, Lear,
Echoed through the silence of midnight air.
"Fair youth," he spoke, with eyes that mirror the soul,
“Do words still stir and touch the heart’s chord?
Dost thou still find meaning in lines?
Dost thou still get solace,
in the wisdom of great minds?
I quivered, yet my heart held fast—
"Thy words, dear Bard, still hold steadfast.
Thou words are timeless, they light the way,
And guide lost souls with love and zest."
With a pleasant smile, he withdrew,
Like mist that fades in morning dew.
The night fell still, the dawn soon broke,
Yet in my mind, his echoes spoke.
I woke up with vestiges of that dream,
more determined, more keen to read.
With ‘All’s Well that Ends Well’
the next on my list.