Press

Ink‑stained fingers trace the age‑old press,
Where lead and type once sang in rhythmic quest.
The clatter of the forme, a steady beat,
Whispers of stories that the world would meet.

Now silver screens and humming servers gleam,
Yet still the press pursues the same fond dream:
To hold a mirror up to truth’s thin seam,
To give the voiceless a resonant stream.

From broadsheet broadsides to the tweet’s short line,
The heart of journalism remains divine—
A vigilant labour, keen and keenly keen,
That sifts the chaff, lets honest facts be seen.

So raise a cup to those who ink the page,
To editors who turn and gauge the age,
To reporters who chase the fading light,
And keep the flame of freedom burning bright.