Pantoum
Between the Lines of Rain —
Rain has always carried a language of its own. For some, it is music, a lullaby for weary souls. For others, it is grief, the sky weeping when words are too heavy to speak. For me, rain has always been a mirror—reflecting not only the world outside but also the storms within.
By Nadeem Shah 4 months ago in Poets
The Language of Falling Leaves
Introduction: When the Trees Begin to Speak Every autumn, when the air turns crisp and the trees begin to shed their leaves, the world transforms into a living poem. Golden, crimson, and amber leaves dance through the air before resting gently on the ground. To many, it’s just a seasonal shift. But if you listen closely, you’ll hear something deeper — the language of falling leaves.
By Nadeem Shah 4 months ago in Poets
Echoes of a Silent Heart
Introduction: The Sound of What We Never Say Silence has its own language. It lingers in the spaces between words, in the pauses where our hearts ache but our voices fail. A silent heart does not mean an empty one—it means a heart that carries longing so heavy it cannot always be spoken aloud.
By Nadeem Shah 4 months ago in Poets
Whispers of Humanity
In a small valley cradled by ancient hills, there was a village where people rarely spoke in haste. Words mattered here. Every sentence was weighed like a stone before it was placed into the river of conversation. This wasn’t due to silence or fear—but reverence. The villagers believed that words, especially those shaped with care, held power. At the heart of the village stood an old tree known as the Listening Oak. Its roots curled like open hands, and its branches reached skyward as if it were in constant prayer. Beneath it, once a week, the villagers gathered for the “Evening of Whispers,” a tradition as old as the village itself. On these evenings, people recited poetry—written by themselves, their ancestors, or passed down through memory—each verse shared like a seed planted in the soil of community. Lina, a quiet girl of sixteen, had always attended but never spoken. She loved the way words danced in the air during the gatherings, how an old man’s rough voice could carry a tender truth, or a child’s scribbled rhyme could soften hearts hardened by time. She carried a leather-bound notebook everywhere, scribbling poems no one had seen. Her mother, Mira, once the most eloquent poet of the village, had lost her voice years ago after Lina’s father died in a mining accident. Mira hadn’t spoken since. She sat each week beneath the Listening Oak, eyes bright with unspoken memories, hands resting on her lap like unopened books. One golden autumn evening, the Evening of Whispers began like all others. The breeze was gentle, the air sweet with fallen leaves, and the lanterns flickered as villagers took turns speaking their truths. A boy read about losing his pet bird and the freedom it might now enjoy in the skies. A woman recited a lullaby written by her grandmother. An elder shared a haiku about the ache of growing old. As the night deepened, silence fell. Then, for the first time, Lina stood up. Her knees trembled, but she held her notebook like a shield and walked to the base of the tree. People turned to watch, their expressions gentle but curious. She opened her notebook, cleared her throat, and read: > “We are made of breath and brokenness, And yet we bloom. In silence, we carry stories That wait for the wind.” Her voice quivered, but she continued: > “I have watched my mother Speak without words Sing in her silence And teach me the language Of listening.” People stilled. The breeze hushed as if the world leaned in. > “Let us not forget That pain, when spoken, Can become a bridge. And poetry— Poetry is how we walk across.” She closed her notebook. For a moment, all was still. Then—soft clapping. A gentle rustle of approval. Some nodded, others wiped quiet tears. But Lina looked only at her mother. Mira, still silent, had risen to her feet. Her eyes shimmered, and for the first time in years, her lips parted. A breath. Then a word: “Thank you.” Gasps rippled through the crowd. Not for drama—but for the quiet miracle of a voice returning home. From that night on, Lina’s poems became a thread in the tapestry of the village’s tradition. Her voice, once hidden, helped others find theirs. Mira didn’t speak often, but she began to hum old songs, and when she did, others would join in. Years later, people would still tell the story of the girl who whispered truth beneath the Listening Oak and reminded them that poetry isn’t just for beauty—it’s for healing, for remembering, for becoming whole again. And every time a new voice rose in the circle, someone would smile and say, “Another whisper of humanity.”
By Muhammad Saad 5 months ago in Poets
