For Nan

I stumbled upon a strange page
The kind you find only in modern age.
Not made of papyrus or of any wood, 
Yet call it a 'log' why (I wondered) anyone should?

In a place that, usually, a spider spins,
Where men surf without tails or fins,
They called it a blog (web + log) and it came from
A place called w-w-w dot Blogger dot com.

Well, writ on it were such strange stories
Of sadness, despair, guilt and worries
That make your heart ache and spirits fall.
But soon, like all, you bump (head first) against a wall.

You'd made a mountain out of a molehill  
And laugh out loud against your will.
A little fun is what, there, everyone seeks
And that (dear friends) is the way Nandhini speaks.