The Shawshank Redemption

Redemption in the Shawshank Walled‑Garden

In the twilight of a dim‑lit cell,
Andy clasps a brick whose marks are old,
A quiet hope, a quiet spell,
The rain upon the chalked wall is told.

The prison gates, a barred horizon,
Where time is measured in heartbeats slow,
The warden’s smile, a hollow token,
His paradise is a burned‑out show.

Red, the chronicler of the walled‑world,
Whispers of a stream that never stops,
Even as the grind of the calendar is twirled
He keeps a paper boat that dips.

With careful hands, the ink on parchment bleeds,
From prison to the outside world he spreads,
Leaving letters where a dream conceals,
A boy’s escape, a soul redeems.

And the old tree that stood by the lamp,
Where the warden hid his trespassed shade,
Weary colours sway through timber,
As the rebel ink in the void is made.

May the colour of hope, a green back‑lot,
Open such windows in the prison’s grin,
And that no one, as we walk the lot,
Will be forever chained by the dam.

For the man who hid behind these cruel walls,
Spent time inside the lesson of Riley’s skill,
The ocean he touched was his faith, the cinders his coal,
His anchor, replying that the load will never ruin the soul.