Relic

Relic

In dust‑laden corners of forgotten halls,
A relic lies—its surface softened by time,
A silent witness to epochs that fall,
Whispering stories in a language sublime.

Bronze or bone, it bears the marks of hands
That once shaped hope, that forged belief and fear,
Each groove a sigh, each crack a quiet stand
Against the tide that erases all we hold dear.

Museum light caresses its weary face,
Casting a glow that softens the years—
A bridge between the present’s hurried pace
And the hushed echo of bygone spheres.

We stand before it, reverent and still,
Feeling the pulse of ages beat within,
Knowing that though empires fade and thrash,
The relic endures—where memory begins.