The Chronicle Of Open Hands And Falling Crowns Poem by Pushp Sirohi

Hear this, you who sit upon inherited stone,
Whose names are stitched in banners, not in bread.
The earth does not remember titles long—
It keeps the weight of what was fed or bled.

You were crowned to circulate the river,
Not dam it where the thirsty kneel in dust.
Gold is a guest that rots when kept forever;
Power survives only when shared in trust.

The vaults beneath your halls know older songs
Than those your heralds shout to fill the square.
Coins stacked too high forget where they belong;
They learn the silence of unused prayer.

Once, you were keepers—
Now you count.
Once, you were chosen—
Now you guard.

History has a patient way of teaching.
It loosens stones. It thins the loyal blade.
It lets the night do what no army manages:
Turning a throne to furniture, then shade.

Look back—
Crowns that clutched learned how to burn.
Kings who closed fists lost hands to time.
Ash remembers every name equally;
The wind does not bow.

Open the doors where grain waits to be light.
Open the gates where work learns dignity.
Let wealth move like blood, not like a hoard of bones;
The kingdom lives only where it circulates freely.

This is not a curse.
This is a record already written.

I do not ask.
I witness.

Abundance moves—or it replaces its keepers.
Thrones breathe—or they become dust's furniture.
And ash, faithful ash,
Always knows where the crown once stood.