A stone’s condolences

You can talk to the stone,
For it will tell you,
Tell you tales about a stubborn toe,
A broken skull,
Lost lives, fallen icecreams,
Wasted rain drops,
On virtue of it being still,
Stagnant, silent, unaffected,
The rain did not affect the stone,
And it didn’t mind turning into a rock in the Ram mandir,
Or being the first stone pelted at the mosque,
It was unaffected.

It’s silence pelted the hardest vows of nothingness,
At those who will be left with nothing,
Sometimes not even nothing,
To feel nothing is a luxury banned in detention,
Impurity in your blood makes you cry for war,
War against yourself so you can disappear,
While the world wars against itself,
Our stone stayed stagnant, silent and soulless,

What a privileged stone it was,
Standing on the tombs of the living,
While the dead rest in heavenly peace,
Silent night, Holy night,
All is calm, all is gone,
Only the dead rest in heavenly peace.


Shriya Kotta

Shriya Kotta

An English literature major living in a world where coffee is a magical health supplement, men are half as confused as women, orchids wither only after a month, four months of autumn and carpe diem or a less cliche version of it is the normality. In the end, all the art still matters.


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