Death Drops The Curtain On The Mughal Emperor Poem by Dharma Gill

Death Drops The Curtain On The Mughal Emperor



His palace is buried beneath the sea of skulls.

The jewels in his crown
are splinters – worn out and worthless.
His burnt body that percolates the blood spilt.

The tanker transfuses leftovers.
Fragments of innocent bodies
produce slivers of his evil regime.

His throne is buried beneath the ocean of bones.

Skulls and bones are the scaffold –
the only supporting evidence of his dictatorship
from which exudes the barren emptiness of his empire.

The wreckage of his monolith remains in the city of ruins.

His robe is drenched in suspicious blood globules.

His kingdom’s blackened,

darkened his microscopic world;
and beyond its graves tireless shrieks pierce

the air, land and sea.

Souls seek solace through vengeance.
Speeches storm every sphere.
Tongues waggle and curse the cold callousness.

For justice of the pillaged, plundered, looted, raped, killed,
he is in hell being consumed by its fires.

His illusory empire fails to cheat eternity,
and his short-lived reign - conquered and crushed.

Tuesday, March 25, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: History
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