Builders of the Unspoken Verse

There is a special community known not for their buildings or inventions, but for something far more precious: words that heal. They call themselves Builders of the Unspoken Verse, a small group of poets who meet every weekend beneath an old banyan tree near the river’s edge.

Their leader, Master Faizan, was a wise elderly poet who believed that poetry wasn’t just a talent—it was a bridge that connected hearts. He often said, “Words are not written to be admired, they are written to be felt.”

Among the members was Aamer, a quiet young man who rarely spoke, but always listened. His poetry was full of observations—small moments others overlooked: the ripples on water, the silent whisper of autumn leaves, the courage hidden in a simple smile. Everyone admired his work, even though his voice was too shy to read it aloud.

Another member, Bilal, was the opposite. Loud, funny, and full of imagination, he wrote stories in verse. His poetry danced with humor and adventure, turning ordinary situations into magical tales. He often teased Aamer playfully, encouraging him to share his poetry out loud, but Aamer always refused with a shy grin.

Then there was Umair, who wrote to heal. His poetry came from experiences—some painful, some heartwarming, all deeply honest. Whenever someone was troubled, his words were like gentle rain easing the dust of sadness. Umair often said, “Poetry is the voice we need when we cannot speak.”

Every weekend, the community sat under the banyan tree, sharing verses that shaped their emotions into art. Some wrote about nature, others about faith, some about laughter, and some about sorrow that eventually found peace. Together, they believed that poetry was not just writing—it was a way of living with understanding, kindness, and awareness.

One morning, Master Faizan arrived with a simple announcement: the city was holding its first Poetry Festival, and their community was invited to perform. The members were thrilled, except Aamer, who felt his chest tighten at the thought of reading in front of strangers.

Master Faizan noticed his discomfort and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You write what others feel but cannot express. You don’t need a strong voice, you only need a sincere heart. That is enough.”

The day of the festival arrived. The stage was small but filled with excitement. Poets from many places came, each with their own style. When it was the turn of the Builders of the Unspoken Verse, Bilal read first, making the audience laugh with his witty storytelling. Umair followed with a deep emotional poem that left quiet reflection in the hearts of listeners.

Then Master Faizan announced, “Our final poet is Aamer.” The crowd applauded, but Aamer’s hands trembled. As he stepped forward, Bilal whispered, “Don’t worry, we’re here.” Umair smiled, “Just speak your truth.”

With his notebook shaking slightly, Aamer began. His voice was soft at first, but his words were powerful. He spoke of ordinary moments that revealed extraordinary emotions; of nature’s quiet wisdom; of unseen courage living in every human heart.

By the end, the audience was silent—not from lack of interest, but from awe. And then, they erupted into applause. Aamer’s voice, though soft, reached every soul present.

From that day on, the community grew, not because they sought fame, but because they shared something pure: poetry that healed, connected, and inspired. Under the banyan tree, their words continued to build bridges of understanding, reminding the world that feelings deserve a voice—and poetry is that voice.