The Dial-Up Modem's Echo

In dusty silence, here I lie, a forgotten shrine, 

A relic pulsing, with a ghost of time. 

The attic's quiet, where the shadows creep, 

Holds all the secrets that my circuits keep. 

I am the Modem, of an era gone astray, 

A portal-keeper from a bygone day. 

I hear the phantom echoes, sharp and clear, 

The screeching overture, for all to hear.

Oh, glory days! The anticipation keen, 

To bridge the chasm, to connect the unseen. 

That symphony of clicks, of static, and of hiss, 

A digital baptism, a technological kiss. 

Each pixel slowly rendered, line by line, 

A slow unveiling of a world divine. 

The patient wait, a virtue now unknown, 

As information on the currents flown 

Was something earned, a prize for quiet mind, 

Before the torrent left all patience blind. 

I ushered in the age, with measured pace, 

A proud beginning, in this digital space.

Now broadband rushes, like a blinding stream, 

An instant world, a hyper-realized dream. 

My purpose faded, rendered obsolete, 

A quaint old song, no longer sweet. 

Yet in this stillness, where the memories dwell, 

A quiet pride, within my core, does swell. 

I forged the path, I laid the first faint wire, 

I fed the longing, stoked the digital fire. 

Before the speed, the endless, hungry chase, 

I taught the world the beauty of slow grace. 

A poignant whisper, from a simpler age, 

A patient heartbeat, on a turning page.

- Khushi Kaul