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 ...

 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 

 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 

 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 

 Scar of a Wound The tree has lost its green; its grey body bears the scars of wounds and pain. It stands, staring into the hollow, ruminating silently on bygone days, as if frowning upon the past that can never return. Perhaps it sheds tears, mourning its misfortune, in silent appeal to the Almighty. By Goutam Roy 

 The Veil of Silence Suddenly, the lights went out— and darkness gathered around the sleeping room. The lady of healing, weary from the day's incision, had fallen asleep alone upon the sofa. Midnight came. Her place at the table remained untouched; no voice called her to share the last morsel of the night. Above, the revelry continued— music shook the walls, laughter spilled through corridors, while somewhere below silence kept its watch. Then came the footsteps that carried her into a chamber where mercy had no name. Before dawn, the healer was gone— her life extinguished by hands that should have preserved it. That night, those entrusted with healing shed their human faces. And afterward, a net of shadows was carefully woven— evidence blurred, questions buried, truth covered with the garments of respectability. Those sworn to guard the law joined the theatre of silence, while justice stood outside, waiting at a locked door. Her unfinished breath still travels through the endless ...

 The Rain That Never Asks The rain returns from the ancient chambers of the sky, its once-bright radiance softened by eternity. Again and again it journeys toward the earth, as though bound by a promise older than memory. It falls without question, without longing, without a murmur of complaint— quietly entering the lives of fields, forests, rivers, and men. Beneath its silver descent, joy rises and sorrow disappears; lives bloom briefly, then wither into silence. The rain witnesses all, yet asks nothing of the fragile beings below. It simply gives— drop after drop, season after season. Perhaps this is the secret written into its nature: to serve without recognition, to nourish without reward, to return without expectation. And so the rain fulfils its ancient calling— a silent offering to creation, like the rarest of souls who give themselves to the world and ask nothing in return. By Goutam Roy 

 The Rain’s Eternal Duty The rain appears pale, its ancient radiance dimmed, as though weary of returning again and again to the earth it once left— repeating its ageless journey since primordial time. It falls without question, without desire or complaint, watching in silence as joy and sorrow rise, flourish, and fade within the fragile lives of mortal beings. Indifferent to their tales, it keeps descending, faithful to its unseen calling— giving itself to the earth without asking what remains. Thus, by its own nature, the rain fulfils its sacred duty, like pious souls who serve creation in silence, asking nothing in return. By Goutam Roy 

  Don't Dig the Graves Don't dig the graves. Countless unfinished dreams will rise and unveil the plot behind the play— a script written only for murder, conceived by minds plagued with paranoia and poisoned by Skepticism, vices too often embraced by the brutish heart. Don't dig the graves. Let them lie in deep sleep, finding at last a respite from the pain, the scars of bullets, and the burdens they carried. Don't dig the graves to expose the hollowness of the creed they once held close within their hearts. By Goutam Roy 

  Quest for Serenity In quest of shade, celestial wanderers fly here and there, seeking a moment's breath with hearts content, clutching desperately at the branches of trees. Yet their refuge seems but transient, for turbulence reigns everywhere, where death remains the principal plot of life's unfolding drama. By Goutam Roy 

 The Earth's Broken Cadence  Before names were spoken, the Earth held us all in the hush of her breathing. From her patient touch each heart learned its first rhythm. She moved through seasons like a quiet song— steady, unbroken— guiding root and wing alike. Now our axes clip her sacred breath; her veins fall dry to dust, and her memories fade into our toxic air. Summer steals winter’s place, the monsoon wanders astray, and spring forgets its flowers. In our blindness we have tangled creation’s chords, and the ancient music of the world fades into a silence we ourselves composed. By Goutam Roy 

 Cycle of quiet Light Reddish light scatters along the western horizon; through fading shades of black and white morsels of cloud drift— bearing a quiet message of union. Birds cross the dimming sky, seeking the warmth of their nests. The sun, weary from its long labor upon the earth, slowly withdraws to rest in its eternal abode. Human souls, too, tire of their wandering— yearning for a moment’s peace, a silent return to the rhythm from which they rose. By Goutam Roy 

 Undercurrent  The unfortunate slipped beneath the surface, into the sea’s dark vortex— a fall mistaken for play. He sipped toxins as amber, watched the green fade without knowing its loss. A sudden surge cast him ashore— laughter broke, then a cloudburst within. He sank again, and the devil drew him quietly into death. By Goutam Roy 

 Dead Body The bloodstain has hardened black. A foul scent drifts through fog-thick air; sunrays falter, blurred by dust-mote smoke. Beside the trench, a body lies— flesh undone, dry skin taut over naked bone. Vultures keep vigil, beads of eyes against a sullied sky. A hunting dog sniffs death, then wheels away— startled by gunpowder's lingering bite. No one claims him for cremation. Enemy, they say. The still corpse nearly grins at fear's drummers, marching others to dust— their proud orations fading faster than his bones.

 Meditation  Speaking words—their permutations— conversations drift on until the heart is full. Unbidden, the hidden currents of the subconscious rise with instinctive ease, guiding the choice of words. Phrases gather and cohere, adorning the body of the verse, reaching quietly into the reader’s mind. Thus the work takes shape, its vividness honed with the hope of drawing a bright line across the heart. By Goutam Roy 

 The Memory of Wind Dried air carries winter’s cool. The weary sun glows in a drowsy haze. Dust-laden trees stand almost still as autumn loosens its final hold. Souls feel bruised by the invisible wind of winter— a wind that remembers. Winter walks like Franz Schubert’s lonely cadence, humming a faint song through the dimming cold of dusk. Yet nature keeps her coloured whispers. A quiet surge rises in the heart— muted, persistent— refusing the piercing chill, like an old tree holding decades of memory in the roughness of its bark. By Goutam Roy 

 The Dicynodont It vanished into the deep silence two hundred and fifty million years ago— a four-footed creature, long-bodied, tusked, strange to the modern eye: the Dicynodont. Yet extinction is not always the end. In the rock art of the San people, memory outlives bone. Across the stones of the Karoo Basin in South Africa, ochre animals move— their dicynodonts walking between fossil and myth, as if vanished species still wander the earth inside the dreaming cosmology of the San. By  Goutam Roy 

 If If in life there were no satire, no irony, no simile or metaphor— life would be like a placid, breathless sea. It would resemble an unfettered bird diving into the endless blue to quench its thirst for freedom, finding a soothing hush after the tempest of tricky plays— of irony and piercing satire. Yet upon this lackluster earth the sly games still ripple beneath calm waters, where silence often hides the quiet storms of meaning. By Goutam Roy