These scripted marbles make our case.
We weren’t rich, we weren’t great,
And yet we were considerable.
We meant something to someone else.
Enough to be a marble’s worth.
A daughter lost in childbirth.
A father in an accident.
A brother in the naval trade.
A wife enduring secret pain.
A son exploring taboo acts.
A friend in need of friendly touch.
Though many cannot read the script,
And those who can don’t care for names
Or dates or pithy epigrams,
We matter even underfoot.
We matter though we’re trampled on.
And even now we’re useful still.
We cool the path to Gods within.
Minakhi Misra 