Taj Mahal was not built in a day, they say,
But what really raised it — love, gold, or sway?
Was it Shah Jahan’s ache for Mumtaz lost,
Or the empire’s might, paid at a brutal cost?
A thousand hands toiled in moonlit gloom,
Carving white grief into a marble tomb.
Their names unknown, their stories erased,
While one man’s sorrow stands engraved, praised.
They call it love — eternal, divine,
But whose love needs such a lavish shrine?
Is it love when voices of labor are drowned,
And the dead lie deep beneath ornate ground?
Visitors come, wide-eyed and awed,
At domes and spires so finely flawed.
Yet rarely they pause to ask or feel —
Whose dream was this, and was it real?
For it’s not just a symbol of passion or grace,
It’s a grave, not a sanctuary or sacred place.
It doesn’t sing of hope or light,
But echoes with shadows dressed in white.
Beneath its beauty, silence screams —
Of labor, loss, and broken dreams.
Perhaps it’s not the love we must recall,
But the haunting cost of building a wall.
So next time you gaze at that marble face,
Think not just of romance or royal grace.
Ask: is this love, or is it control?
A tale of a ruler, not of a soul.
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