An Ode to Lost Artifacts

In dim-lit halls where whispers linger,
Time’s relics rest, their stories thin,
Amidst the silence, I stand a thinker,
A curator, bound to the tales within.

Once vibrant voices, now echoes pale,
These fragments of life, once cherished and bold,
Hold secrets untold, like a forgotten tale,
A tapestry woven from ages of old.

A shard of pottery, cracked but profound,
Holds whispers of feasts where laughter once bloomed,
As grains of sand on the ancient ground,
Spoke of love and loss in the shadows they loomed.

A silver coin, weathered and worn,
Once danced in the hands of merchants so wise,
Its glint caught the eye of the world reborn,
As empires rose beneath sprawling skies.

Behold the tapestry, threads woven tight,
Each color a heartbeat, each stitch a sigh,
It speaks of a mother’s lament in the night,
As her child’s distant laughter fades into the sky.

A warrior’s shield, dented but proud,
Once gleamed in the sun as foes drew near,
Now rests in the hush of a gathering crowd,
Guarding the dreams of those who dared persevere.

Oh, the stories these artifacts bear,
Of battles fought, of lovers entwined,
Of cultures that flourished and vanished from air,
Yet linger in moments, eternally enshrined.

Each fragment a heartbeat, each relic a muse,
Connecting the present to histories vast,
They whisper of choices, of paths we might choose,
Of futures imagined and echoes of the past.

In every corner, the dust speaks of time,
Of hands that once touched, of breath that once stirred,
The canvas of history, painted in rhyme,
Of lives intertwined, of truths that are blurred.

So I stand as a guardian, a keeper of dreams,
A bridge to the past, in this sacred expanse,
For each artifact whispers, or so it seems,
The fragile threads of our shared circumstance.

In the quiet, I feel their warmth and despair,
As shadows of memories dance on the wall,
They teach me to listen, to cherish, to care,
For in the realm of lost artifacts, we are all.

A tapestry woven of hope and regret,
Of journeys taken, of lessons unlearned,
In these hallowed halls, my soul is beset,
By the ghosts of the past, where love has returned.

So here in this space, with reverence I stand,
Embracing the echoes, the laughter, the tears,
For every lost artifact, like grains in the sand,
Holds the weight of our stories, transcending the years.

- Khushi Kaul