In a glass chamber of patient experiment,
forests of copper rods stand upright—
a congregation of listeners awaiting the voice of the unseen.
A pinwheel spins, not by air,
but by the pressure of memory itself.
Two black bellows rise and fall like sleeping lungs,
breathing rhythm into gears that no hand commands.
Within a wooden cradle, a white cylinder rests—
an egg of waiting thunder.
Beside it, spilled stones of many colors:
the lost currency of forgotten physics.
Below, three columns of golden reeds grow through crystal slabs,
their stems bending in obedience to invisible equations—
a silent syntax of weight and light.
And beneath all, a lattice hums like a clock face,
its lines marking prophecies of rotation,
as though the page itself prepares to turn.
The Maharajagar 