Remains of the Dig
or Years after the Divorce
Peering through the rusty grill
I see, in light diffused,
a project abandoned:
Rolls of poster paper
lie thick under dust.
Information unprocessed,
proclamations never made
The tools of the trade:
trowels, brushes and pans,
neatly stacked years ago
when the funding ceased
and, once ardent archeologists,
stored their hopes
at the end of the dig.
That was the time
when love ran out
and passion could conjure no more.
When the milk curdled,
when dust,
gathered
day by day,
determined
to daunt the brightness,
sap the energy to polish,
kill the courage to shine.
A stack of old camp cots,
their webbing sadly perished,
guard a pile of ancient cannon balls.
In pentecostal supplication
they are waiting to be born again,
praying for the repetition of a miracle
now lost in impotence.
Safely padlocked, under a sturdy roof
the substance of failure rests in peace.
To the observer from outside
it tells its own pathetic story
I rub the nostalgic rust
I stroke the gate that bars me
from past participation.
Freely I walk away.
Happy to have been a part;
happier still, to be apart.
Karnataka 2002
See Context
