Burden

This one is from my notebook, written over a year ago while wandering the streets of Bombay Fort at night.

I hear these stones whisper
In a million dissonant voices
Under the burden of vaulted ceilings
And the memory of human experience —

Of Romeos and their goodbyes
Of fathers and the blood of their daughters
Of smiles between strangers
And tales of mushroom clouds

That strange melody
From the other side of the fence:
Can I make it mine
Even if my mother never sang it to me?

And can nightmares of murder
And fables of jealous gods
Be erased from the memory of a race
That has run out of shame?

The susurrus of the stones
And the light reflecting off the patina
Seemed to be mocking my obsession
With drawing lines in the earth

Because the story is never finished
And history always spills over
To tell the tale of a creature
That can kill but loves sometimes