I read this poem on a website:
’It’s now dust’. They had said.
’Crumbling slowly, falling since long,
turning to dust on the grounds and greens,
of lands far and near.
And the dust was finally
blown away, dispersed at Chepauk.’
They had said.
’It could have been, a nice stuffed tiger,
preserved in a museum on the banks of the Ganges.
To be looked at with reverence and awe
and forgotten with a tinge of pity.’
They had said,
’What could have made a wonderful monument,
is now dust.’
The dust heard all
but it listened to the music
of the waves lapping at the feet of rocks.
It listened to the wind blowing through fogs
and liked the deep song
of the tiny brave boat which battled on the crests
of the turbulent ocean.
Then the dust stirred.
At first slowly, imperceptibly.
And churning the East coast
swirling through the hills of Assam
it swept through the plains of Punjab.
Then it settled
on the rocks of the Cape.
Becoming the rock itself
rock by rock it rose
to become the towering light house.
The ship had been wandering in the night,
buffeted by threatening dark waters.
At last it saw the light house,
standing firm and resolute on the shores
of the dark continent.
When it was morning
the ship was in the port,
victorious and jubilant.
The eagle was perched on the flag mast
silently watching as the Captain
and the gunner were honoured.
It was preparing silently
for the next voyage. It had heard
the westerly wind whistling through the islands.
- Sudhir Joglekar