“Fragments of a Forgotten Song”

Fragments of a Forgotten Song

Poetry about memory and longing

By [Ali Rehman]

There’s a melody hiding just beyond the edges of my mind — faint, elusive, like the whisper of a dream dissolving with dawn. It’s a song I once knew, a song that belonged to a time when the world felt fuller, softer, and somehow more infinite.

But that song has faded into fragments, scattered pieces of memory and longing that I gather whenever they surface — in quiet moments, in the spaces between heartbeats.

I remember the first notes like distant stars flickering through a mist. They belonged to a day so vivid it still pulses beneath my skin. I was younger then, and the world stretched endlessly before me — bright and unwritten.

The air smelled of rain and wildflowers. Somewhere nearby, laughter mingled with the rustle of leaves. And in that moment, the song played — a harmony woven from sunlight and shadow, joy and ache intertwined.

But life, in its unyielding way, pulled the melody apart. The notes slipped through my fingers like grains of sand, leaving me clutching at silence.

I try to piece it back together, searching the corners of my mind for the tune that once carried me. Sometimes, it’s a phrase — a line of poetry spoken once by someone whose voice is now gone. Sometimes, it’s a feeling — the ache of loss or the warmth of a forgotten embrace.

The fragments come like echoes, haunting the edges of my days.

A glance from a stranger that stirs something unspoken.

The scent of an old book, its pages worn and yellowed.

A song on the radio that slips beneath my skin like a key unlocking a hidden door.

Each one holds a part of the forgotten song, but none of them can bring it whole.

I write to catch these fragments, to give them shape before they vanish.

Words become my net, my refuge. They gather the scattered notes of memory and longing, weaving them into verses that try to hold the ephemeral.

Sometimes the words come easy, like a river flowing freely. Other times, they catch like a thorn — sharp and stubborn — refusing to be tamed.

But I keep writing, because these fragments are all I have of a song that once gave meaning to the silence.

There’s a strange comfort in longing, too — a bittersweet ache that reminds me of what was and what might have been.

I am learning to sit with this ache, to let it wash over me without fear. It is a part of the human song — a note that deepens the melody, giving it weight and beauty.

In the quiet hours of the night, when the world is hushed and still, the fragments come alive.

I close my eyes and listen. The song is there — faint but insistent, like a heartbeat beneath the surface.

It sings of love lost and found, of moments slipping like water through fingers.

It sings of dreams that flicker and fade, and of hope that refuses to die.

I realize now that the song was never truly lost. It was simply waiting — waiting to be remembered, to be felt again in new ways.

Each fragment is a thread, and when I gather them, they form a tapestry — imperfect but whole.

The song is mine, shaped by memory, longing, and the courage to listen.

And so, I keep searching for the melody — in the sunrise and the rain, in laughter and silence, in every fragment of a forgotten song.

Because in those fragments, I find myself — a soul singing through the cracks of time, holding on to the beauty of what was, and the promise of what could be.