A Piece Of Dupleix

The museum was deserted at mid-noon The summer sun more than his taste for history Drove him in for a stroll among the dead faces and objects. His eyes caught the two warnings Photography prohibited and Don’t touch objects He furtively cell-clicked Dupleix’s Bed Solid 18th century teakwood Carrying stains of his passions on white linen Imprinted with the motions of his emotions There he saw the ruler on the bedstead With tender touch of fingers on his head One svelte hand on the dark wooden stand His hand involuntarily touched the wood A small chunk fell into his hand And without a second thought In a forbidden impulse He shoved it inside his pocket He came out from the musty smell into the sun A chip of Dupleix in his pocket His passion’s outlet Escapes from the ravages of war To find solace From the tender hands around him Bought by force of wealth Far far away from home. Away from colonial past he breathed deep The little wooden chip would be a memorable keep!