The Museum

 

 

Two floors upward in the skies,

sits quietly a museum where none visits,

once did come Hitler to lay a war,

and took away the precious spring,

with a gunshot, the dead flowers still lie there,

covered in blood, the nazis have nothing to loot,

museums are a place of myriad thoughts,

floating like clouds in the air,

but this one has risen from wars,

unseen wars by varied Hitlers,

the clouds are thoughts, thoughts of silent wars,

once they pour down, the earth becomes wet,

but the museum lies still, it doesn’t falter,

neither are there crevices that are ever mended,

each wall holds a story of invaders,

often visiting unasked, history remains,

hidden in the alcove of this museum,

says who one person can’t hold thousand histories,

of thousand days and nights, I carry this museum everywhere,

a labyrinth of not birthed manuscripts,

the spring doesn’t die out here easily,

I met Frida Kahlo and brought some from her,

a woman of art, always gives wisdom to stay,

the museum is mystical, stays inside a woman’s mind,

with each new season, it becomes heavier,

                                                  this time the rains have flooded,

the thoughts more, standing behind those panes,

 a face of a woman, will take you to that museum!

Poem by Monalisa Joshi

Image Source: Pinterest