An Ode to the Voiceless

We called ourselves human, yet forgot what mercy means.

We crowned ourselves as civilised, yet darkened all our dreams;

We mastered earth and reached the stars, proclaiming ourselves wise—

Yet failed to hear the silent cries that lived behind their eyes.

They came with trust within their eyes, with innocence untamed.

With hearts that knew no malice and asked for little in exchange;

A patch of earth, a breath of wind, a mother's gentle call—

Yet cages rose where fields once stretched, and shadows swallowed all.

For every nest we left bereft, each mother searching on,

For every paw that scratched a gate beneath a fading dawn;

For every eye that sought our hand and found the cold instead,

For every life that slipped away while we looked on and fled—

This ode is for the nameless souls.

Whose stories went untold;

Whose only crime was being weak,

In a world that prized control.

We raised our towers toward the clouds, and we sailed beyond the seas.

We split the atom, mapped the stars, and harnessed wind and breeze.

We filled the world with roads and steel, with engines, light, and sound.

Yet somewhere in our march ahead, compassion stayed behind.

We wrote our laws, we built our wealth, we praised the age of man—

While countless lives without a voice

were lost beneath our plan.

You had no tongue to plead your cause, no words with which to cry,

Yet every tremor told a tale beneath the watching sky;

A frightened glance, a faltering breath, a heartbeat beating fast—

The language of the voiceless that we chose to walk right past.

Your silence was not emptiness.

Your stillness was not peace;

You asked for nothing but to live.

To wander, breathe, and be.

So let your memory remain.

Long after ours is gone;

Let every field that shelters life

Remember what went wrong.

May every hand that reaches down

Choose kindness where we failed.

Until no creature turns away.

From footsteps drawing near.

And when our towers turn to dust,

Our monuments to stone,

May gentler things outlive our names—

The wild, the wind, the dawn.

May forests open without fear,

May wings rise unconfined,

And every creature finds its place.

Beneath an open sky.

Then run beneath that endless blue,

Where no chain waits ahead;

Where grass bends softly with the wind,

And fear has finally fled.

No cage behind you, no hand above— 

Only earth, and sky, and light.

You were never ours to conquer.

You were never ours to own.

You were alive.

And that should have been enough!

Sreejith Kulaparambil

The Tavern of Love

They asked the dervish,

“Where does God live?”

He smiled

like a man who had drowned

in a beautiful ocean

and replied,

“Wherever Love remains untouched

by possession.”

Then he walked away

as though even words

were too heavy

for truth.

We spend lifetimes

searching for doors

to heaven,

while the Beloved waits

inside our own breath.

Drunk on separation,

we wander through this world

calling ourselves lonely.

But how can the wave

be lonely from the sea?

Every heartache,

every longing,

every restless night

is only the soul

remembering its Source.

The tyrant seeks Love

through control.

The beggar seeks Love

through prayer.

The lover seeks Love

through another’s eyes.

All are thirsty.

Some drink from rivers,

some from mirages.

But the wine remains the same.

Love.

The saints called it God.

The poets called it fire.

The mystics called it annihilation.

For when true Love arrives,

the “I” cannot survive.

That is why ego trembles

before surrender.

It fears becoming dust

at the feet of the Infinite.

Yet what is death

except the melting

of all false boundaries?

The moon does not fight

the pull of the tide.

The reed flute does not resist

the breath of the musician.

Then why do we resist

the One

who has been singing through us

since the beginning?

Listen carefully:

Existence is not held together

by laws alone.

There is a secret rhythm

beneath creation.

A hidden remembrance

moving through stars,

through prayer beads,

through the silence

between two heartbeats.

The lovers of God

call this vibration.

The wise call it surrender.

And the broken call it longing.

But the Beloved smiles,

for all paths 

whether through joy or suffering 

lead back

to the same ocean.

Love is not something we find.

Love is what remains

when everything false

falls away.

Sreejith Kulaparambil 

We were Never Separate

 

The body is a rumour the universe keeps repeating.

Bone pretending to be boundary.

Skin rehearsing the lie of an edge.

Inside—

The same dark pulse

wears a thousand different names

and answers to none.

We say “I”

like it belongs to us.

Like breath asked permission.

Like blood obeys identity.

But listen—

Every vein is a corridor without doors.

Every touch, a collapse of distance

we pretend not to notice.

And still, we resist.

Build careful distances.

Call it safety.

Call it self.

As if separation isn’t

the slowest form of dying.

Love arrives—

not as kindness,

but as erasure.

It does not ask.

It does not heal.

It removes.

Burns the name

until only presence remains—

raw,

unclaimed,

unending.

And when nothing is left to protect,

tell me—

what exactly

was ever

separate?

Sreejith Kulaparambil 

Where Rivers Become the Ocean

Who tells the river the way to the sea?
The one obsessed knows where to be.
For hearts that burn with a destined motion,
Don’t seek advice — they become the ocean.

No master points, no scripture guides,
The path unfolds where silence abides.
In stillness flows the current deep,
Where seekers wake from mortal sleep.

Each stone, each bend, each fleeting pain,
Drives it to grow — none go in vain.
To flow is faith, to trust is art,
To lose the self is to find the Heart.

The mountain’s pride, the forest’s song,
Whisper — You’ve known the way all along.
For rivers move by nature’s will,
The more they yield, the more they fill.

Desire dissolves in sacred streams,
As names fade out in waking dreams.
What once was ‘I’ is now but whole,
A drop returned — the boundless soul.

So, heed not maps, nor counsel, nor plea,
Truth flows where truth must be.
For hearts that burn with pure devotion,
Do not arrive — they are the ocean.

Sreejith Kulaparambil

 

You Are the Author of Your Life

With every dawn, a page turns bright,

A blank new canvas kissed by light.

Your hand holds ink, your heart the pen,

To script your tale again, again.

The storms may tear, the nights may test,

The weight may press upon your chest.

But trials rise to carve your soul,

To shape the diamond from the coal.

So smile through pain, let worries fade,

For nothing here is ever stayed.

The darkest night gives way to morn,

And from each wound, new strength is born.

No script is fixed, no fate is sealed,

Each choice, each step, your truth revealed.

Relax, endure, embrace the strife

You are the author of your life.

And when the final page is read,

Your story lives beyond what’s said.

A tale of courage, grace, and light,

Forever burning, ever bright.

Sreejith Kulaparambil 

Wings of fire

Tattered wings and broken strings

Crawling through the gusty winds,

But still I move, with silent might,

Toward the promise of the light.

The world may howl, the night may sting,

But I was born with fire within.

No storm can claim what’s mine to be,

No chain can hold what longs for free.

Each scar I wear, a badge, a flame

A mark of how far courage came.

Thousand falls and million tries,

Yet still I chase the endless skies.

These broken wings will learn to soar

Not less, but stronger than before.

So let the winds roar wild and high

I’m not the one who says goodbye.

I am the storm, the flame, the spark

With wings of fire, I light the dark.

Sreejith Kulaparambil 

We, the Blinded Gods!

We built our cities upon the bones

Of silent fields and crumbled thrones,

And claimed the right to rise and reign

Above the roots, beyond the pain.

We stoked our fires with ancient trees,

Choked songs of birds, and stilled the breeze.

We mined the Earth for fleeting gain,

And left her scarred with smoke and stain.

We drew red borders through the land,

With ink made thick by human hand.

We crowned the greedy, armed the proud,

And praised the war, then cheered the shroud.

We made the gentle live in fear,

Turned silent pain to loudest cheer.

The calf’s last cry, the tiger’s plea—

Now haunt our dreams, eternally.

The lion’s roar now fades like breath,

A shadowed song on edge of death.

We took the oceans, made them black,

And never once thought to give back.

The mother weeps, the soldier breaks,

The whale sings low through oil-slicked wakes.

The sky, once blue, now bruised and dim,

The songbird’s hymn—a requiem.

We built machines, forgot the soul,

Made glass from sand, and hearts from coal.

We paved our way with shattered truth,

And lost the poetry of youth.

Yet now—

Can you not feel the Earth’s last breath?

A whisper curling into death.

Can you not hear beneath your feet

The throb of time, a faltering beat?

Do not mistake this world as yours—

You are a guest, behind her doors.

She gives you bread, sun, and rain,

But not to tear with such disdain.

Rise, then—

From silence, from the ash and flame.

Let not your heartbeat sound the same.

Let sorrow shape a better song,

Let all that broke become what’s strong.

Tend every tree as if it’s kin,

Mourn every life you see within.

Be not a ruler, not a god—

But one who walks a humbler sod.

Live not for fame, nor pride, nor cost—

But for the lives we’ve nearly lost.

And when the end looks back at you,

Let it see love in all you do.

The hour is grave, the shadows long—

But still, the earth hums one last song.

Beneath the rot, a heartbeat dares—

And waits for us—if someone cares.

Awake, awake! The silence screams—

We've sleepwalked through our borrowed dreams.

The Earth beneath us breaks and cries—

Will we just watch, or will we rise?

Sreejith Kulaparambil