O Taj Mahal,
I learned in history,
You are one
Of the wonders seven,
Of the world.

I do not know,
How they decided.
I do not know,
Who they were.
I do not know,
If they visited you at all.

In my know and estimation
You cannot have number,
Even one, two or seven
In any miracle or wonder.

What are you ultimately?
A well arranged heap
Of wounded marbles?
A nicely decorated tomb,
With some jewels and diamonds?
Also a source of perspiration,
Say, of twenty thousand peoples’
Say, twenty two years’ sweat,
Still flowing in Yamuna?

Is it not so?
Yes,
It is not so.
Yes, yes,
It is not so.

It is not number one,
Two three or seven.
It is unparallel, unique,
It is ultimate heaven.
In the sun rays,
In the moon lights,
All long days,
All bright nights.

What do we see in Taj?
The days of the Raj!
No no no.
We see love alive,
Eternal and personified.
We see love,
Sleeping and beatified.
We see love,
Living and flowing.
Here we see love,
Here we feel love,
Here we become love.

Now tell me.
How can I accept?
And why not reject?
To call Taj Mahal,
The very love itself,
As number one,
Two three or seven.
Can a number to love
ever be given?