Goutam Roy

The Silence Beyond Eden  The sky, dust-laden, wears the stains of ash, while restless souls gather pearls of eternity, yet their hunger remains unsatiated. Frontiers bleed, dreams crumble into ruins, and nameless children inherit an unknown Eden's ashes. Once, your footsteps consecrated the earth, your breath sanctified the wandering winds. Now, iron and fire dictate the fate of spring. Who taught the flowers to fear their blossoming? Perhaps the giants still play their ancient game, moving kingdoms across the chessboard of the earth, while pawns of flesh and blood vanish beneath their shadows. And you remain silent, beyond the ruins of paradise. Is your silence the final mystery of creation, or the permission through which the giants reign?

 Solemn Mourn Perhaps a solemn melody of mourning, composed by Chopin, will drift through the air as a thousand suns flare, turning everything to ashes. There will be none left to lament; only their anguish will linger in the ether, taking the shape of a grieving tune— a prayer of departed souls ascending to the Almighty, like a skylark singing at the threshold of heaven. By Goutam Roy 

 The Half-Life of a Flaked Stone ​The strata do not lie: violence is an older tongue than grammar. Beneath the pale silt of Jebel Sahaba, quarts-tipped points remain nested inside fossilized ribcages— our earliest surviving blueprint, the draft copy of an appetite. ​We did not abandon the instinct; we merely built faster vessels for it. We train neural lattices to simulate empathy, chart the cold drift of gravitational waves, yet keep fifty megatons of concentrated noon caged in concrete silos, calling the hostage-taking peace. ​The geometry has always been flawed. We measure survival in blast radii, treat whole zip codes as collateral margins, and wait for someone to flinch. ​Let the launch codes rot in their salt caverns. Let the unspent uranium sleep in the deep shale, no longer demanded to play the sun. Let the silt fill the trench unhurried, until the broken arrows and the silo doors are nothing more than strange, blunt minerals rusting quietly in the dark. By Goutam Roy ...

 A Bird Without Captivity An imprisoned bird yearns to unfold its forgotten wings, while a wounded heart buries its cries beneath the ashes of anguish. Yet, beyond the silence, the Creator whispers through the mysteries of existence, awakening the scorched soul from its wordless depths. And what once remained imprisoned within, begins to take flight through the infinite tongues of creation. By Goutam Roy 

 The Endless Rehearsal To build is to crash, to crumble into dust, then feign to begin anew— the ritual of creation continues age after age. A new episode is thought to unfold, yet the same old story is composed again. The stage remains unchanged, only the actors depart, making room for others to rehearse the past. Nothing gleams on the distant horizon, no guiding Polestar to lead the way beyond this endless cycle. By Goutam Roy 

 After Sojourn The sun will set, dyeing the horizon crimson, calling everyone home to their nests, to ruminate upon the day's endeavours and reckon with what remains undone. The weary souls await another sojourn. The sun will plunge into the hollow abyss, only to rise again with the morning light. And the souls wait, beyond the fading dusk, to witness another dawn and resume their journey. By Goutam Roy 

 White Temple Again, a storm! At the door it knocks, seeking entry, threatening to topple the pinnacle of serenity— so transient, so fragile. Tender hearts cannot withstand the sudden blows; they bend, their heads bowing beneath the weight of sorrow, their eyes brimming with tears, yet fixed upon the White Temple. By Goutam Roy 

 The Theatre of Dreams Dreams drift through infinite dramas, staged incessantly in the theatre of time. Few find their bodies in the realm of reality; the rest remain suspended, staring at distant horizons. Laughter and tears share the same curtain, while hope and despair exchange their masks behind the scenes. Thus, life unfolds— a delicate performance, where joy rehearses sorrow and sorrow dreams of joy, beneath the unseen hands of an eternal playwright. By Goutam Roy 

 Seconds Time runs too fast,  allowing no pause,  no leisure to rest. Each fleeting fraction  of a second vanishes  into eternity's hollow,  bearing invisible particles  from one end towards the infinite,  never to return in its former guise. Countless seconds weave themselves  into a new history,  then dissolve along  their destined paths. They never turn back  to behold what they have left behind—  the footprints of existence  buried beneath the passage of time. By Goutam Roy 

 Fortress Days seem shorter, nights stretch longer; an owl's hooting drifts like an omen through the silence. Everything seems weary— the trees, exhausted, struggling beneath the weight of dust and smoke; the birds, suffocating, stranded in a poisoned sky. Even souls lie choked, sinking into depths of unspoken anguish, gathering fragments of their dwindling strength to build within themselves a fortress against the siege of despair. By Goutam Roy 

 Mystery The dusty sky, stained grey with black, unfolds the tale of panicked wayfarers who came to fill their satchels with pearls— perhaps to answer the Lord's unanswered question with a gentle smile. But the hunger remains. Unsatiated souls stare into the flames where borders bleed, dreams crumble, and nameless children inherit the ashes of a paradise they never knew. Once, your footsteps purified the earth; your breath made the air sacred. Now, the winds carry the unfinished arguments of iron and fire, while the heavens keep their counsel. Who has stolen the silence of Eden? Who has taught the flowers to fear the footsteps of spring? Perhaps the giants are still at play, moving kingdoms across the chessboard of the earth, while pawns of flesh and blood fall beneath their hands. And you remain silent— you, who once dreamed of a paradise purified by your presence. Is your silence the last mystery of creation, or the permission by which the giants continue to reign? By Goutam Roy...

 Musk The sea wears the musk of tranquillity, while molten anger stirs beneath its skin. Yet the waves must flow, bound by the laws etched into the bones of eternity. Sometimes, they rise in fury, then retreat into silence, only to awaken their buried rage again. Here, creation and destruction dance in an endless cycle, each devouring the other to make room for what survives. And the sea remains— serene upon its face, a universe of unrest beneath. By Goutam Roy 

 The Flowers of Words Plucking words from the garden of thought, arranging them in rows, the poet gathers what longs to be revealed— a new horizon hidden beneath the lines. Such is the art of poetry: finding the unseen within words. By Goutam Roy 

 The Many Within the One By Goutam Roy A drop— a nameless fragment of the immeasurable, until its kin converge and the ocean awakens. A brick, mute beneath the weight of time, finds its meaning in the company of others; together, they raise a mansion against the emptiness of the sky. Perhaps existence is built upon this secret: nothing becomes everything without surrendering something of itself. An engine pulls the train through the iron veins of distance; the wheels obey the rails, while unseen landscapes slip into oblivion. But who commands the journey— the force that leads, the wheels that carry, or the tracks that prescribe the way? Above the earth, a flock writes its silence upon the unwritten sky. Each wing is separate, yet the pattern belongs to none alone. Is togetherness the surrender of many wills to a single direction, or the discovery of a freedom that exists only among others? And when the mansion touches the indifferent heavens, when the ocean forgets the countless dr...

 The Pyre Between the Fingers A silent killer nestles between the fingers, disguised as a friend in the theatre of smoke. A blurred psyche chases moments of solace, while hemlock whispers through the corridors of breath. The mind drifts, unmindful of the bargain—  a little pleasure borrowed against  an unknown tomorrow. A tiny sun burns at the edge  of the darkness,  promising light  while devouring its own horizon. With every fading ember,  an unseen clock moves;  the lungs become a garden  where poisonous clouds take root. And life, still breathing,  mistakes the warmth of fire  for the comfort of a friend,  until the fingers release only ash—  and the silence of a fading heartbeat. By Goutam Roy 

 The Elixir Within Tired of the quest, the elixir remains unmoved, enshrined in sanctity, defiant against the turbulence of the sea. Weary of standing sentinel, the receptacle awaiting nectar begins to sense the vanity of its vigil— the waste of time, as the mind drifts through a hollow sky. Then, unexpectedly, life discovers another life within the hollow chamber of a solitary heart. By Goutam Roy 

 Seeds Beyond Time By Goutam Roy Deep beneath the ice, seeds lay concealed, perhaps entrusted to the future by little squirrels in the distant reign of the mammoth age. Thirty-two thousand years slipped into oblivion. The squirrels were gone— their return a silence beyond possibility. Yet the seeds endured, sleeping beneath the frozen weight of time, until inquisitive hands awakened their buried promise. Now, from the ancient past, white flowers bloom upon the trees— a quiet triumph of life over the vanishing of those who once prepared its future. By Goutam Roy 

 The Womb of Silence  Before the word, silence dreamed— not the absence of being, but the womb of all that might become. Within its unlit depths, nameless thoughts wandered, like unborn stars searching for their own darkness. The mind, still without a voice, became a shoreless ocean where fragments of the unseen gathered into dreams. Slowly, the formless stirred; shadows began to imagine light, and the void, unaware of its own longing, prepared to give birth to existence. No tongue had broken the silence, no sound had crossed the abyss— yet creation was already unfolding, writing itself upon the unwritten. Perhaps the first word was never spoken; perhaps it was silence itself discovering that it could become something other than silence. By Goutam Roy 

 Infinite Hunger What is it we seek— a mirage mistaken for thirst,  or a thirst born of something we have lost? Perhaps what we attain belongs to a stranger within ourselves. Thus, longing wanders along its destined course,  drinking from the river that never remembers the shape of thirst. Yet, what if hunger is the hidden flame  within the seed of desire— growing with every quenching drop? Will it one day devour the garden of silence, turning paradise to ash in its desperate  search for the water that lies within itself? By Goutam Roy 

 Broken Nest The broken nest— once built by a bird and his beloved, dreaming of a heaven within its fragile walls. Days drifted past on the wings of love, sweet and seemingly endless, each hour a promise of eternity. Then, a sudden blitz toppled their fragile world, shaking its foundations. The nest lay shattered— its branches scattered, its shelter torn apart, its ruin mirrored within the heart. When the lover finally saw what time had kept concealed, he discovered that her love was no elixir for his wounded soul. He stared at the hollow sky, now crimson with fury, while the ashes of their dreams drifted through the ruins of his heart. By Goutam Roy