time to rest

Kannadasan scrolled through his phone in Srivilliputhur's fading evening light, watching modest earnings accumulate from shared poetry. Years of midnight verses finally finding readers, quietly appreciated across invisible distances. His grandmother's stories, once whispered only to family, now touched strangers' hearts. The platform had changed everything softly—no drama, just steady recognition. He thought of his ancestors' words, preserved in temple walls and folk memory, now living digitally. Tomorrow he'd rest, finally. Tonight, he typed one last verse about homecoming, about how heritage finds new life when shared gently with the world.