The Taj Mahal, that tomb of white marble,
travels the world on lips of tourists,
in books, film, on-line, sent postcards.
No other human edifice so exquisitely lovely
fixed the image in all our heads
expressed the royal grief of one man.
She died so young in childbed, his favoured wife,
already mother of fourteen,
common enough end to a love story in those days.
To such loss
not even a wealth-spoilt king could be immune.
So endless visitors arrive to marvel
at the magnificent achievement.
But what of the unseen ugliness here.
Obscenity of four letter words — rich, poor, Boss.
Bent backs broken under quarried stone.
Animals, women too, no fork-lifts then.
It took 20,000 craftspeople 18 years work
and a reward for the architect: brutal shock of severed hands,
lest his genius design as good or better for some other envious ruler.
Never forget the workers built this.
A masterpiece of collective labour,
though according to the books and postcards
only one man with money, who lifted no finger, sweated no sweat, gets the credit.
BY CONNIE FRAZER