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Dissecting a Lyre

Poetry, Varnika Thukral

A museum of seven plinths beneathe

And an arrow stretching its arms,

Yawning in these halls

of a wooden box

In which a population of three thousand



Within this skyscraper of

Reverberating consonance

Painted on to the walls,

Will it fall, wondered the nyiad,

When the thunder strikes,

When the immortals of the skies


that the echoes of this abode

Can tear through the shrines

To deafen a priest's rhyme,

"Will it fall" cried the gorgons,

"When the heaven's strike"

And every voice hence personified

In ballads of a bard, in

Epics engraved on a stone,

Would one day turn old

Too unreal to be told

Will the dead, finally die

When no mourner

would pay for pier,

Would their families continue

To pray

To those who

Burnt their villages in childish fires,

To those who then

burnt themselves in desire

For maidens,

Who are more,

no more

Then a body left for examples

That beauty costs,

And it costed them,

The heavens did strike

Injecting cosmic dust into

Breaths of who narrated

Could only murmur

And those collective

Echoes became

Tunes and symphonies

Played On an instrument

Called lyre.


Varnika Thukral, a poet foremost and an assistant director at the book reviewing department, The Young Writers Initiative. She is pursuing Journalism with a knack for literature, and a passion for photography. Her ideas have been her realm of comfort and hence, she writes.


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