I see engraved patterns of unusual creativity and exquisite craftsmanship. White-labelling came into existence, when identities were lost in smooth paleness of marble.
Taj Mahal is but a sculpted grave, with souls of unknown artists scattered in the invisible graveyard. I don’t see pine trees and the water canal, but hear muffled sounds of creators.
I wonder if those hands and minds pined for recognition, but were mercilessly crushed by systems and institutions. The permanence of the structure holds a spirit that will outlast the fickleness of fame.
know what you restore
it is injured dignity
calling out for help