The Taj Mahal's Mystic Live. Poem by Subrata Ray

The Tajmahal's Mystic Live

Rosy busy eyes from marble stones,
Shoot forth with bouncy and cry and roam.
Each stone assumes, the passionate, nymph and gnome,
The earth born tempests, turned to airy homes.
The feast harvests in tickling fall,
Through unheard voice and tuning call,
The moon-caught night,
Through prism flight,
And the queen from the mommy,
Bursts out in a light oozed scroll.
The moon did talk,
With vampire rock,
And it came swinging in air,
Through the corridor,
Came more and more,
The long and vast Desire's shore.
The dancer fays,
Like seven colored rays,
Filled the art's drinking cups.
The building stone,
Withdrew its moan,
And spread their hearts to share,
They rose headlong, in scattered throng,
And jumped in void to commit a wrong.
The king wrapped with attendants,
Made the court bewildered and stunned,
Damsels thousands dead and living,
From heavy air sprang.
The flute, violin, lyre came,
With music strung but no frame,
The artists denial, without corporal,
Toned the tiring tunnel trance.
In sun-barred time,
There evoked a rime,
The shadowy figures,
Full of life's vigor,
Gave their voice a maddening tongue.
The sculptors with no fingers,
Off-tongue, and words-hunger,
With be-moaned music said,
"Well, the worth of art we are paid"