The Silence of Shattered Dreams

She walked where golden lilies grew,

With hands outstretched to catch the sky,

Her heart alive, her hopes still new,

A fire that time could not deny.

She wove her dreams in silver thread,

And stitched them to the morning sun,

Believed the words the wise had said—

That fate was kind to those who run.

She dreamed of love that would not wane,

Of voices calling soft her name,

Of songs that carried through the rain,

Of stars that burned with endless flame.

She dreamed of hands to lift her high,

Of roads that led to golden doors,

Of laughter stitched into the sky,

Of oceans calm on silver shores.

Yet fate is cruel to dreamers bright,

And time unweaves what hope has spun,

The sky she reached for lost its light,

The race she ran was never won.

The lilies wilted in the sun,

The roads all bent, the doors stayed closed,

The voices called, then turned and spun,

The stars dimmed out, the echoes froze.

She stood upon a bridge of stone,

A river dark beneath her feet,

The world behind her cold, unknown,

The air before her sharp and sweet.

She thought of all she used to be,

Of nights when whispers shaped her soul,

Of days when light shone endlessly,

Before the dark had made her whole.

She thought of love that turned to dust,

Of hands that promised, then let go,

Of faith that faltered into rust,

Of words that fell too soft to know.

And so she walked, but not with grace,

Her feet dragged slow, her breath was thin,

She wore the silence on her face,

A ghost of all she’d been within.

She no longer reached for the sky,

She no longer whispered her name,

She learned that dreams, when left to die,

Are never born again the same.

Yet in the dark, a flicker stirred,

A fragile glow, a trembling light,

A voice too soft to form a word,

A star that fought against the night.

And though she did not reach or run,

Did not believe, did not dare trust,

The light that trembled like the sun

Refused to dim, refused to rust.

She turned, just once, to watch it burn,

To watch it pulse against the cold,

And in its glow, she dared discern

A truth her sorrow never told.

Dreams are not chains that never break,

Nor glass that shatters, lost in sand,

They are the rivers, seas, and lakes—

They change, but never leave your hand.

She bowed her head, but not in shame,

She breathed, though slow, though not yet free,

She whispered soft her silent name,

And let the light fall over me.

Ramseena. P, Assistant Professor, PG Department of Psychology, Al Shifa College of Arts and Science, Kizhattoor, Perinthalmanna