Erase

On the blackboard’s slate, the hand lifts the old‑rubber—
A quiet, silver friend that knows the art of forgetting.
The graphite lines sigh, absorbed by the play of light,
And in that hush the world of words reduces to a blur.

Erase, the silent promise of a clean start,
A favourite gesture of the school‑room teacher,
When the lesson’s ink turns colourless again,
Like a memory flickering out of sight.

Children’s scribbles, once bold, fade with a single stroke—
The chalk ghosts vanish, leaving only a faint echo.
The act is small yet mighty: to wipe away the past,
To give new room to ideas that wait behind the ink.

Brits might say, “Let us organise the chaos,”
And an eraser becomes a humble organiser
For thoughts that stick like stubborn gum to the board,
Making space for fresh dreams that can be written.

Erase it gently, the note on the train ticket,
The error on the diploma, the regret in a diary.
We press with the rubber, a quiet, gentle thumbs‑up,
Enquiring whether the old should keep or fade.

In the quiet of the night, the mind is its own blackboard;
We press the rubber against passing memories—
Erase the pain, reclaim the joy, the colour of the day.

On the sofa, the old photograph lies, frozen—
A black‑and‑white world where stolen laughter drifts.
We lift the old rubber, a child‑like gesture of hope,
And let the film slip into the open pages of tomorrow.