Aravalli.

 


And it seems, 

That this verdant dream, 

Must come to an end, 

To unholy power it must bend. 


Rolling and weaving 

And gently undulating, 

Crafted by the earth 

From its molten hearth. 


A billion years, have I stood 

As a silent sentinel would, 

As civilisations rise and fall, 

As time continues its steady crawl, 


Towards an unknown end 

Untimely eclipses do portend;

This chapter must close,  and soon, 

The earth must blister under the helpless moon. 


These ancient curves must now fold,

These tired, old limbs now sold 

No more sacred to my people, 

What good is old rock in the face of mined gold? 






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