Nobody to watch.
In no other place.

This is the way I found it.
The monolithic house of God, its stone
teeth blooming tin in cloisters of dust.
Reigning in cola-stic disarray, betel stains
on the corridors, ablutions of graffiti and
dung, the stench of marauded stone,
and a ravaged backbone.

These are the spoils of nature,
deliverance putrefying on the stone floor.
Arrears of karma. The way to be.

On these dusty plains of Mirzapur,
where the Marathas took on the British.
Joining flesh to steel,
they carved out history,
exchanged time and blood in style.

Ghanshyam died here with a bullet in his throat.
You could hear the neck snap from here.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is where Sir Percy fell. Circa 1795.’
Where we stand right now, engrossed in a new grammar.

Nobody to watch.
In no other place but here.