I was at the National Museum yesterday. I was looking at all those idols of stone and the date of their making. Some were made over a thousand years ago! They were literally from another millennium!! So I sat and wondered, if the stone had life what would it be thinking? I mean, once it was just a piece of stone by the road - no one really cared about it. Then a sculptor carved a God out of it and put it in a shrine. Thousands bowed before it. Then a foreign ruler came riding in. He plundered the shrine and cutoff the idols limbs. And it fell into the dust and everyone forgot about it. Until a few decades ago, when it was again dug out of the earth. And now it sits in a museum, just another artefact, just another item of display in an endless collection.
So I thought all this and wrote a poem from the stone’s point of view. Here it goes…
:: The Wailing Stone ::
****Rock: I sit here, muted. An obstacle, In the path of others. Unnoticed, uncared for, A detail not to be bothered with.
Task: I sit here, muted. An unfinished work, In the back of a mason’s shop. Upturned, upon my belly, A chisel carving out my back.
God: I sit here, muted. An immense presence, In the sanctum sanctorum. Unparalleled glory - A thousand heads bowing low.
Foe: I sit here, muted. An attack, a war. In the eyes of the enemy, Unfathomable rage. A pain, long forgotten, now awake.
Exhibit: I sit here, muted. An instrument of history. In the multitudes of halls, Uncertain of my importance. A cry trapped in my soul…
…
*Image courtesy: *http://www.flickr.com/photos/littlespace/6963471372/
