Ruins

 

(Dominican Monastery, Daman) 

Are a fall from grace, 

Haunting songs

From seeds of gold. 

Etched, stitched, torn, 

Soaked, seeped, coated

In a sugary syrup 

Of tragic lives, 

Wars, betrayals,

Undying love,

Deaths, lost grandeur, 

Mists of time

Locked in old bottles. 

Everything that is ruined

Is more beautiful. 

Like hearts torn into

Colourful pieces, 

Then thrown away

Into patient winds, 

To be gathered again, 

One by one, 

Stone by stone. 

I touch these walls, 

Century strong pillars

With new names carved

Again and again. 

Stories repeat, 

Themselves to be sung

Don't forget us, 

Don't think anyone

Has had it easy. 

We have all

Gone from fresh paint

To bare structures

That look up to the sky. 

Rain beaten, enemy won, 

Admired and exclaimed, 

Then forgotten and gone.

We are all in ruins, 

Or soon will be. 

So beautifully broken, 

So perfectly destroyed. 

Dead bird feathers

In a living bird's mouth.

Red blood spattered

In red mud earth. 

Skin upon skin 

On water filled burns. 

Till an enthusiastic observer

Comes up to us and stops. 

Then imagines how 

We would have been 

Once upon a time,

Before we fell down,

Before we decided

We didn't want 

To be saved anymore.