There on the ragged ocean's edge,
stands an edifice, tall and old.
Overlooking the silver in the night,
by dusk, admiring the gold.
She is the manefestation of a dream,
a lore made immortal in stone.
The crown of a long forgotten king,
the gold of a dusty forlon throne.
From her shoulders, the cloak of Time,
falls in many a satiny fold.
Perched on Her wizened high forehead
are stone flowers, eternal. Cold.
Millions of waves have cleansed Her feet,
But age hardly crumples Her countenance.
Yet those with a keen probing eye
will see the age of a thousand suns.
For years today, She has patiently stood,
and watched as the city has grown.
Like a Mother at Her child's pyre,
Like History trapped in a living stone...
~Maithili Desai