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
Would
Suffice
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
Realize
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.