When mornings rise in splendour’s awe,
behold! The Taj Mahal.
A testament of marbled grace
where sleeps, Mumtaz Mahal.
Of yore till now in quietude,
at peace where lovers rest.
The Shah Jahan, wherewith his bride
neath domes and minarets.
Of blood and sweat, of artisans,
from stone, a carved lament.
In Agra, she awaits the souls
to laud what heaven sent.
Where madding hearts are pacified,
where the weary find respite.
Romantics come to worship love
and poets crave the light.
Her spires donned in chiselled leaf,
in artistry complete.
The mason’s flair devoutly blessed
to master each motif.
Calligraphy with fervour scribed,
so sad a heart professed.
Such pain engraved in ancient script,
‘O Soul, thou art at rest’.
Of vines weighed lush with sculpted blooms
and fruits of polished stone.
How columns praise the seams of light
and hail the light, their own.
Her dome, the crown of passions lost,
a palace born of tears.
Hold sway the quiet to raise the dead,
to greet the astral spheres.
But mastered once, the art of love
in stone and symmetry.
A place therein where calm resides
in death’s serenity.
From heaven fell a marble tear,
the jewel of love’s mirage.
Where suns and moons devote their light
in reverence to, The Taj.