The Unheard Dreams


 The Unheard Dreams


They marched, faceless, beneath a burning sky,

Chained to a purpose they dared not defy.

One man’s ambition, a towering spire,

Fed by the ashes of dreams set afire.

What of the quiet, the dreams undone?

What of the countless lives lost, unsung?


Alexander’s shadow swallowed the light,

Yet his soldiers perished, nameless in the fight.

Not for love, not for life, not for peace,

But for a glory that would never be theirs to seize.

Banners rose, empires swelled,

While the dreams of the many were silently quelled.


The Ramayana sang of kings and strife,

But at what cost came its grandiose life?

Nameless, forgotten, the ones who fell,

Their silenced dreams no bard would tell.

In Mahabharata’s blood-soaked stage,

How many dreams were crushed in its rage?


World wars screamed of conquest and might,

But who mourned the men lost in the fight?

Dreams of children, of homes, of song,

Sacrificed for wars that lasted too long.

Each grave a wound, each soul a scar,

Dreams snuffed out by the engines of war.


And now we stand, on ruins piled high,

Deaf to the whispers, blind to the sky.

We call it karma, or fate, or debt,

To hide the truths we’d rather forget.

But stripped of pretense, the truth lays bare:

It’s the burden of stolen dreams we all wear.


O voices crushed beneath the wheels of power,

Yours is the silence that still devours.

It is I who ask, with anguish seared,

Why your cries were stifled, your dreams disappeared.

Let the kings stand trial, let the conquerors see,

The cost of their glory is humanity’s plea.

For every dream the mighty proclaimed,

A thousand others died, unnamed.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Face We Show

Image
  There are stories that arrive softly— a life carried carefully, a grief that does not shout, a truth that asks to be met-without armor. And there are others. Loud with impact. Red with excess. Pain inflated into spectacle, violence polished until it gleams. The hall fills faster for these. People sit still, faces neutral, hands folded like witnesses— yet something inside them leans forward. Not the body. Something older. Quieter.  Less examined. They say it is entertainment. They say it is fiction. They say it is just a movie. But nothing draws a crowd-without answering a hunger. Perhaps the outwardly gentle- carry an inward noise— rage disciplined into silence, fear trained to behave, desire never given language. The screen permits what life forbids. Here, damage has no consequence. Here, cruelty is clean, contained, applauded. No one has to act. They only have to watch. Violence becomes a service—doing on their behalf what they would never allow themselves to feel. The sen...
Read more

HOME IN ITS FULL CIRCLE

Image
  HOME IN ITS FULL CIRCLE We began in a rented house— walls borrowed, hope our only possession— and slowly, brick by brick, we built a house on Bannerghatta Road, a place with no pedigree but filled with the pride of first foundations. Life shifted, paperwork turned, and the house we thought was ours became a lesson in impermanence. we bought a flat, believing it would hold our future, and yet never lived in it, for distance has a way of telling truths that blueprints cannot. So we let it go, and once more returned to the simplicity of a rented home. But life had already taught us that space is not measured in square feet, and worth is not inscribed in property papers. Its lessons came quietly, in the years spent with family (in-laws) elders who shaped the air of the house into something sacred. A home that felt like a temple not because of rituals or incense, but because of the discipline of kindness, the practice of restraint, the daily, ordinary worship o...
Read more

The very notion of the second is the seat of fear.

Image
  Krishna Speaks of the SECOND Listen, dear ones— you who chant My name with trembling faith, you who fear loss, death, loneliness, the world’s cruel turning— I tell you a secret the Upanishads sang long before you were born: The very notion of the second is the birthplace of fear. When you see Me as separate— above you, beyond you, outside you— your devotion still holds a thread of trembling. You love Me, but you fear My absence. You trust Me, but you dread My silence. You pray to Me, but you fear I may not answer. This is not wrong— it is just incomplete. For when the mind imagines two— you and Me, self and world, devotee and God — fear stands beside devotion as a silent shadow. Arjuna, this is why I revealed My cosmic form— not to frighten, but to show you there is no “other.” If all forms are My body, if all hearts are My pulse, if all beings rest in Me as waves in the sea— tell Me, beloved, what is left to fear? You are afraid only because you think ...
Read more