A Letter To No One Poem by Manabendra Lal Bhuyan

Overwhelmed by emotions… I bled; I wrote.
I wrote a letter, no one will note.

I spoke. No one heard.
I spoke again—still no word.
I screamed at the sky, but the sky stood still,
Fractured dreams, silent cries, a voice gone shrill.

All went unheard: my screams, my pain,
Dissolving like mist on a windowpane.
I had found myself in a box.
The walls just stood, cold as rocks.
They did nothing but stare,
Not even an echo to fill the air.

I stand alone. I speak again.
Still, silence breathes, just as then.
The sky is watching. The walls still creep.
But ink runs restless. It does not sleep.

And though no one listens, though none reply,
The ink still moves. So, still, I try.

I wanted to tell you. I wanted to tell you.
But I didn't. I couldn't.
I kept it with me.
And yet, all I ever wanted was for you to know:

A letter never sent, a truth never freed.
Not for fear of refusal, nor the weight of goodbye,
But because I feared it might trouble your sky.
But because I was—am—afraid.
Afraid it would unsettle you,
Pull you into the storm I've kept within.
I knew my roots would never be a chain,
Yet a letter—just a letter—might leave a stain.

I had so much to say, so much to weave,
Poems of you, like whispers in leaves,
I kept poems for you,
Traced your name in falling leaves.
I could have painted the world in your hue,
Made beauty itself take lessons from you.
I could have made it beautiful for you.
Yet I couldn't. And I didn't.

The ghostly presence of countless untold confessions-
Never left the pages they were written on.
How many have whispered into the void, thinking they were alone?

From the voice of a prisoner, bound in regret,
To the cries of the silenced, the world would forget.
Some beg for mercy, for sins they've not sown,
Some whisper their truths, yet die unknown.

Some are buried in silence long before their death,
Their words fade like mist on a winter's breath.
To be unseen is a curse, but to pretend is worse,
A life spent screaming, trapped in a verse.

Those who cried yesterday, lost in the past,
Those who cry today—how long will they last?

Why? Why do only sweet voices remain?
How? How does no one hear the pain?
Dripping from tongues, bleeding from throats,
Drowned in the air where apathy floats.

From the wounds of the weak to the dreams of the wise,
The world turns away with indifferent eyes.
"Our principles are honoured—until they defy,
Until they don't serve the powerful's lie.

Even the unheard do not hear,
Lost in their echoes, drowning in fear.
Each trapped within their own despair,
Deaf to the silence they, too, share.

They are silent. We are silent.
The world is silent. The world is made to be silent.

Will they listen?
Will they ever listen?
Will they—?

-will it always be?

If the world won't listen, the wind will.
If the world won't listen, the standing trees will.
If the world won't listen, the silent night will.
The river flows under a ghost-white moon,
The meadows stretch, untouched, alone.
Lone hills watch, the low grass sways,
Grey rocks linger beneath a sky of graves.

The phantom shadows by the cliffs remain—
A forest hears even the quietest pain.

The moon watches, silent, unblinking.
The fog in the valley shrouds everything,
Like truths, no one dares to lift.
The lonely raven feels the silent call,
Yet, it does not intervene.
The starless sky looms over echoing caves,
Where voices return, not to be lost—
But to be answered.

It listens, vast and voiceless,
As if it has heard too much before.
Does it care? Or does it merely bear witness?
Does it grieve? Or does it simply endure?
For the Earth is silent—but not deaf.
It hears. It always hears.
And yet, it never speaks.

Or perhaps…
The forest speaks in the groan of bending wood,
in the hush before something breaks.

The Earth hums beneath the feet.
It has a voice.
Simply, too loud to hear it.
Deep beneath the bones of the world,
Telling stories that everyone lived.

Nature warns, but it does not beg.
Nature is not kind here.
It does not comfort, mend or pledge,
For it has seen civilisations rise—and fall from the edge.

It was always there.
For every wandering heart.
It was always there, answering every plea—unheard.
It remained, guiding every mortal traveller,
A lighthouse to ships, calling them home.
It always spoke, not in words,
But in the pulse beneath our skin.
It became our hearts.
Yet, we failed to hear the voices from within.
Too loud to bear, too faded to find.
It carved me, it shaped me,
It murmured—and I became.
It read me my letters before I knew—
'The letter was written before I spoke.'

Something is listening. Something has always been listening.
The silence was never silence. It was listening all along.
Perhaps that was why I kept my song.