In whispers of verse, a stranger’s hand,
A nameless scribe across the sand.
No thirst for praise, nor gilded name,
Just heart laid bare, a burning flame.
“Let ink now flow,” the whisper said,
“Of hollow spaces in our head.
What mirth we feign, what laughter rings,
When echoes dance on silent wings?”
A silent call, a kindred plea,
To walk a path, eternally.
A stream of souls, with purpose set,
For tranquil shores, where worries fret.
“Let those who cling to shadows stay,”
The voice intoned, “a brighter way
Awaits us all, a common ground,
Where skyward dreams in hearts are found.”
So reach, dear souls, with hands unfurled,
To brush the azure of a world,
Where emptiness finds purpose true,
And whispered tales are born anew.
© Shuhab Abro