The Quiet Funeral Poem by Shahzada Imtiaz Ali

He spoke in sighs, not in demand,
A weary heart, a trembling hand.
He gave his youth, he gave his will,
Yet found no peace, no moment still.

She claimed her place, her throne, her right,
And asked he dim his inner light.
Her love came dressed in terms and laws,
With folded arms and sharpened claws.

No voice of his was heard aloud,
His silence praised, his manhood proud.
But nights grew long, his dreams turned grey,
As joy and laughter slipped away.

He bore the load, the debt, the care,
While she asked more, yet none to spare.
Respect she sought, yet none she gave,
He lived to serve—and died a slave.

No wounds to see, no blood to trace,
Just fading soul and hollow face.
And when he passed, none heard him cry,
For men like him are born to die.

Not by blade or bitter knife,
But by the hands that shared his life.
A funeral with no mourners near—
A man destroyed by love... or fear.