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Thursday, March 31, 2022

Guards at the Taj

Nearly sleeping on one occasion additional inside my arms following hunger

Woke her inside the centre of the night,

My feminine child discovers her hands and, dazed,

Studies the small movements they tin make,

Amazed to find they’re hers to manipulate.

Years ago, on a heated afternoon inside Agra,

Our guide recited the same tired anecdotes

As we walked the packed streets

Toward the mausoleum: that guards at the Taj

Were forbidden to look inside throughout the building,

That some went insane waiting for years

To glimpse the dome following the fence walls

Were torn down. It strength exist a myth—

How Shah Jahan ordered his soldiers

To gash off the hands of the craftsmen

To retain them from repeating the wonder—

But flat myths tin trigger belief.

How lengthy would it have taken them—

The guards—to grow numb to its beauty?

Our guide had visited excessively regularly to find

Any revelations with every one other accompanied by hung spine inside the shade

Of a banyan while we approached the tomb.

I remember the buzz inside the queue, gasps

Of visitors while they passed into and not here of the gate,

Language failing the deeper inside we walked.

Now, a understandable night, inside the glow of the moon,

My daughter’s observation to the procedure magic

Of our bodies, to the sketch of color

And shape. My daughter, a conduit

Through which I notice, again, my hands

And what they’re holding, the massive

Towers we’ve built external outside our windows,

And a darkness train—empty at this hour,

Or taking some lone spirit home—

Flashing inside the gap in the centre of set of two high-rises.

#Living #Parenthood #Arts & Sciences #Architecture & Design

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