Spices

Jars of pigments 

Stand in serenity, 

As marble columns of ancient Rome, 

Lingering on to tell stories untold. 

Had they once been clothed in glory,

Pyramidal heaps of golden sand dust

Now collapsed —

like columns of a fallen empire left in ruins.

Yet they will not yield to 

Reveal. 

Cultivators delight in their company, 

Merchants rejoice in their capital, 

Cooks inhale their aroma, 

solely to live. 

Yet, they remain as they are. 

Hushed by the desert winds, 

Blinded by the veils of the caravans. 

In full splendor, delicately shaped, 

To be seen by each and every. 

Their values are pulsings 

Of yells and bargains, 

No more. 

O bearers of mysteries! 

Will you accord a moment 

Without slipping through my fingers? 

Some among you may have travelled on camelbacks, 

Some may have bathed in relentless heat, 

Some have crossed through burgeoning cities, 

Lost and found along the maze, 

Discarded, kept or left alone. 

I will — 

To break the sublime porter's work, 

To meet a kaleidoscope of colours, 

Of peppers, chilies, turmeric, cumin, cardamom, cloves, anise,

fenugreek, mustard, coriander, and know you all by heart. 

For yours is the true essence 

Of humanity's past, 

And you have not left us since.