The relic

By Ishan Jadhav

Many old relics have been unearthed,

From the soil of an unstable mind,

Dust had made its home,

On the superficial objects of antiquity and interest,

They crumbled to void,

When held by a just hand,

More of such treasures have been excavated,

From depths of memory,

Which make me pirouette with ecstasy,

After realisation takes me too,

The lived moments and speeding time,

And to meaning, of empty seasons,

That I had spent and covered,

The relics with terra rossa,

I was ransacking the forests,

I had moved the mountains,

And stirred up oceans to find,

The missing flame that made me uneasy,

The relic , a fossil of my being,

That was hidden and covered,

By mundane repetitions of life,

To fall into the pit of depression,

Is to be raised by wisdom,

Moving aside boulders of self doubt,

I shifted and threw some soil,

Dirtied my garments by petty societal comments,

But followed the flame nonetheless,

Which led me to my relic,

The innate feeling of my being my self, my expression,

Which was present since the beginning,

But covered by impressions,

I opened my ears to meaningless useless knowledge,

That temporary people preach upon,

The relic which I had longed to find,

Was a gem embedded in my existence,

Which would aid me to live a life,

Through my own eyes and conscience,

The relic – indestructible as it is,

Will illuminate the impermanent path,

Which collapses unto itself,

When heavy materialism rides on it,

The relic of our unused souls ,

Is beyond materialism, it’s original, innocent.

By Ishan Jadhav