I walk twenty steps, five feet
down into the darkness
of buried secrets
on the outskirts of the oasis

I walk twenty steps, five feet
in the excavation
next to the shallow ditch
which was once a pond

Discovered from the sky
vaguely marked in the sand
by odd gauge values
of the substrate

Back into the light
where a man sits
on the roots of an old tree
looking at me

Compelling, he beckons me
pointing to his water bottle
and I realise
that he knows the answers

to the questions I shall ask
when he is no longer there

A thousand years hence, we lose our identity.
Never did a genius come for rescue activity.
Never had seen the world since the aftermath,
That deprived us of fresh air to breathe.

At some point of time did our world collapse,
With the forces of nature, burried as corpse,
Except the Dome of a burried temple, yet to be filled,
With a holy Trishul over it - so got another temple built-
The only clue left for our deliverance,
But became the means of worship for the masses.

Clashing with misfortune, nothingness is what we gained,
No one, better than us, can bear the pain,
Of being burried deep under,
Above which people now walk by, cars rush over.

Dreaming a barren hope for an excavation,
With the likes of Mohenjo-daro, Harappan civilization.
Ready to wait for thousand years more,
For the fruit of patience cannot be sour,
That will one day discover a long-lost heritage,
Revealing the descendent of an emerging human race.