But a camera's lens like magic,
What he once shot at one snap,
Soon became mystery at its max;
Though it appears half the world,
Beneath the lens remains the rest,
And though hundred years pass,
So rust beget the faded grey fast,
Nor are the people herein alive,
But memories shall soon reside.
Yet listening of heart fools deny,
They idolise the captured time,
And think how wondrous then!
Their lives so simple and free,
Like counting one, two and three,
Why now do we count ad infinitum?
Yes'- eerily 'twas'- sorry'- he:
This editor with haughty flash,
With a fine Chanel soon a room dispels,
Now are the gracéd few stayed to hear,
Of his youth and now explains this snap,
Which now he calls his deepest regret.

Category:
Civilisation, Poetry, Works
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