Yash Shrivastava
1 min readFeb 22, 2022

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Standing in the line for tickets outside the Victoria museum’s white domed building
I looked at you, waiting, cigarette smoke rising from your lips like silent hymns to the sky
We were young and bored, quick to get distracted
What was it about those old statues and paintings that fascinated you?
Sacrilegious ruins from another precious life
Our collective heritage is that of a few men leading great deeds
Or who lived long enough to tell their tales
Was it because these were our last few keepsakes of beauty
Allowed to exist beyond their purpose
Say we could take back our few harms
What we did to others and ourselves, would Lucifer gently rise back to heaven
Would Sisyphus rest at the top of the mountain against his boulder
Would Ahilya not turn to stone, and wait centuries for a savior
Maybe that’s why we salvage art
The greatest catastrophe in the world, is the one that’s in your heart

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