the archeologist...

The tiny drops of rain
Cried in vain
Clinging to the rails
Of the staircase
Of the palace...
So majestic ...grand
As if a white marvellous land...

But without people so empty
And standing at the feet
Of the flight of stairs
That rose up to the upper layers
Of the sky...cloudy with colors dark deep
He thought what for he had come there
What promises he had to keep
After so many years that glided by
After the terminal kisses and long drawn good bye...

Then he looked up the golden dome
And a pink floating form
Came to his sight
At one corner of the dome bright...
A pink saree's end perhaps or a flag
He his hypnotised legs up the stairs dragged
As if that piece of cloth aflutter
Beckoned him to climb the marble ladder
Of hopes returning again with force
For which he wheeled away several miles from his determined course...
For which he spent hours by the lake
For which needlessly he made too apparent mistakes...
For which the sky, the river,the trees, the hills...
All his mind only impressions sealed
Quite permanent...indelible like some ink
Painted on fingers which to his digressive paths him always linked...

So he climbed the hypnotised man
He climbed not knowing after that time where he would stand...
Only he felt he was there like an archeologist
To unearth history from the surface of marble and brick...
He felt by his spatula he would carbon date
What is the exact age of his pinkish fate...
So he moved up to reach the saree's end
To where his search to the non physical world bent...


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