The Wailing Stone

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I was at the National Museum yesterday. I was looking at all those idols of stone and the date of their making. Some were made over a thousand years ago! They were literally from another millennium!!
So I sat and wondered, if the stone had life what would it be thinking?
I mean, once it was just a piece of stone by the road – no one really cared about it. Then a sculptor carved a God out of it and put it in a shrine. Thousands bowed before it. Then a foreign ruler came riding in. He plundered the shrine and cutoff the idols limbs. And it fell into the dust and everyone forgot about it. Until a few decades ago, when it was again dug out of the earth.
And now it sits in a museum, just another artefact, just another item of display in an endless collection.

So I thought all this and wrote a poem from the stone’s point of view. Here it goes…

:: The Wailing Stone ::

I sit here, muted.
An obstacle,
In the path of others.
Unnoticed, uncared for,
A detail not to be bothered with.

I sit here, muted.
An unfinished work,
In the back of a mason’s shop.
Upturned, upon my belly,
A chisel carving out my back.

I sit here, muted.
An immense presence,
In the sanctum sanctorum.
Unparalleled glory –
A thousand heads bowing low.

I sit here, muted.
An attack, a war.
In the eyes of the enemy,
Unfathomable rage.
A pain, long forgotten, now awake.

I sit here, muted.
An instrument of history.
In the multitudes of halls,
Uncertain of my importance.
A cry trapped in my soul…

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