SWORD

It lies on my table now, dormant
History bearing down on its shoulders
Harmless and perhaps useless
Of rusted iron
And handle of ivory

Curved and exquisitely carved
It changed hands
A century and a half back
From the maharaja of Nepal
To one of the greater of my great grandfathers

Did it ever see the light of battle?
Did it ever light up a battle?
Witness to the lives and destinies of kings
Unfolding on a premeditated chequered board
In forbidden lands far away

Perhaps part of an espionage mission
It must have slain some glorious king
Been witness to the shedding of blood
And the transfer of power
When betrayed kingdoms forcibly changed hands.

It must have seen all
Scheming king and magnanimous king
Sycophantic minister and hypocritical courtier
Dyspeptic soldier and patriotic horse
Blinded by greed and driven by the smell of blood

But for all it has seen
It does not speak a word to me, but
Shrouded in its veil of secrecy, of covert operations,
Now corroded to the bone and harmless
It lies peacefully on my wooden table.