The History of Our Being

This motionless Agra sky

like a chalky dust hat,

hangs from the finial of Taj.

Its enormous yellowing dome

roofs the mausoleum

like Time’s blessing palm

frozen over History’s head;

housing deep under

in sacred stone chambers,

the ivory remnants of star crossed lovers.

In its huge curvy shadows,

Yamuna passes like a muddy brook.

Dark and ash grey;

awash with the spirits of dead,

rolling on eternally with

sea dreams in its quotidian waves.

Coils of sunshine drip from the alcoves,

of soot wrapped minarets where

birds return for the night.

Behind, in the Shalimar,

Chrysanthemums have closed their eyes,

wilted under the sun;

and the sighing willows at the distance

brush the grin of admirers and

fog cameras, with the charred sulphurous

breeze of a bustling city.

Yet, on a full moon night

invariably the pavements fill up –

amazed laughs dribble

through gaping mouths,

watching the wonder reborn.

In the cascade of silver light

as the shadows slowly recede,

the heavens send down a million-stars blush

and lovers clutch hands in longing

watching their reflection in the pool,

for Taj redeems from the dark

draped in the blue of night, and dazzle –

like all the jewels of the universe

heaped at once by the banks of Yamuna;

of a painter’s luscious dream

conceived in the eyes of his muse;

and a poet’s beautiful thinking hand,

ink smelling, love-loss smelling, hope smelling

striding the pages in a lyrical delirium.

Fragrant wind pants through the

archways, honouring dead poets

whose verses float on the bejewelled walls,

engraved in sensuous calligraphy;

stopping at the foyer for a while,

beneath the echoing marble sky,

delving into an indecipherable hush-hush

with the ghosts of dead lovers,

before rushing headlong out to the gardens.

I look out at the wasted earth of our being.

Deserted meadows of fruits trampled to dust,

and thorny hedges growing in the alley

where I remember having pulled you aside

to kiss your lips, to touch

your smooth midriff.

In the clearing of trees where

in a hammock we splayed out,

lowering our eyes to the blemishes of sun

and napped—my chin to your nape,

your waist to my stomach,

two human commas, pausing

their life sentences to be each other’s;

now lies a deep abyss, filled with burnt out

suns of solitary days.

I wonder if you will ever return

with a full moon in your thoughts,

and replace the fallen crown of our legacy.

Trust me for once, if you do, no heath will be too

arid for flowers to bloom again,

no sky too morose to cast a blessing rain.

And in the clearing we shall lie all over again,

chasing gold deers and swimming in rivers,

inspiring this new generation with our old, eternal love.

In this deep ravine of longing,

will you not seek to redeem our pride

by restoring our history with your forgiveness,

for the world to swoon, like Taj Mahal on moonlit nights?

© Sobhan