Ode to Silas Finch's Return

Ode to Silas Finch’s Return © By Artemis Quill 3/12/2025 “No problems, overwhelmed with blessings” The lamplight flickered, low and wan, on Silas Finch's brow, A battlefield of forms and facts, where sweat began to plow. His table groaned beneath the weight of receipts, a paper storm, A year's endeavor, hard-won gains, now twisted into harm. The deadline loomed, a raven's croak, a fiscal judgment day, And Silas toiled, a weary clerk, who couldn't find his way. He'd wrestled with the forms before, a jungle dark and deep, Where deductions hid like lurking snakes, and credits lay asleep. For hours he'd poured o'er Profit and Loss, and Balance sheet he'd scanned, But the numbers danced, a devil's jig, beyond his mortal hand. He cursed the cryptic coding words, the jargon cold and cruel, That turned a simple honest wage, into a tangled rule. His wife, bless her heart, brought steaming tea, and sandwiches so fine, 'Don't fret so, Silas,' she did say, 'You'll sort it, line by line.' But Silas only shook his head, and rubbed his weary eyes, 'It's more than lines, my dear,' he groaned, 'It's falsehoods in disguise!' He’d built his business, brick by brick, with backaches and with grit, A small shop selling spanners, saws, where honest tradesmen fit. He'd never cheated, never lied, had paid his dues with pride, Yet here he sat, a prisoner bound, by numbers he defied. Then, like a shaft of sun that breaks, through monsoon-ridden skies, A memory sparked, a whispered word, before his very eyes. His nephew, young Tim, had preached for weeks, of wonders yet untold, Of digital device that keeps a record, brave and bold. A 'Computer' Tim had called the thing, a screen and coded keys, That sorted figure, tracked the trends, with effortless ease. Silas had scoffed, a stubborn man, 'Such magic cannot be, Give me my ledger, strong and true, for all the world to see!' But now, in his desperate hour, he thought of Tim's advice, A nagging seed, now taking root, and blossoming in price. He rummaged in an ancient box, tucked underneath the stair, A gift Tim gave him, long ago, gathering dust and despair. He dusted off the screen with care, the cables he connected, A tangled web of wires then, a promise now protected. He punched the power button, slow, a spark, a groaning hum, The screen awoke, a vibrant glow, his salvation yet to come. He fumbled through the keyboard then, a novice in the game, Till prompted by the simple words, he whispered Tim's good name. The software loaded, sleek and clean, a template neat and square, 'Enter your figures,' it declared, dispelling all his care. He typed with trembling hands at first, his profits and expenses, His invoices received and paid, his countless recompenses. The computer whirred, a gentle song, a calculating might, And soon, upon the screen it flashed, a vision, clean and bright. The figures matched! The balances aligned! No error could be found! His tax return, in perfect form, upon that hallowed ground! He blinked his eyes, he rubbed his chin, could this be really true? The machine had conquered chaos there, where he had failed to do. A joyous shout escaped his lips, 'The blessed gadget saves!' He ran to find his sleeping wife, and wakened from her waves. 'It's done! It's done! The taxes done! By wizardry untold!' She smiled at him, half-dreaming, then smiled and gave him gold. Silas Finch, a changed man, knew that technology's hand, Could lift the burden from the back to bring new hope to man. He’d gladly give up ledger books, for circuits strong and keen, And trust the numbers to the screen, that washed his ledger clean. So, heed this tale, ye weary souls, who struggle with the byte, Embrace the future, bold and bright, and step into the light. For even Silas Finch, that stubborn man, saw wisdom face to face, That technology, when used with care, can lead to better pace!