Grave Of Buried Dreams

By Ujita Brahma

A country that's been "developing"

for god knows how many decades,

where progress is a word

hung on banners,

but never carved into lives. 

Here,

the clocks tick backward,

and minds are stuck

in cemented pasts,

worshipping traditions

that choked tomorrow

before it learned to breathe. 

Here,

a child is born with wings,

only to have them trimmed

by a father’s shame,

a mother’s fear,

a neighbor’s gaze. 

Here,

love is judged by dowries,

dreams by degrees,

success by surnames,

and silence by survival. 

Here,

parents parade their kids

like trophies—

not for who they are,

but for how they look on paper. 

Only when a room goes quiet

and a light goes out

do they cry,

"Why didn’t they say anything?"

But we did.

In cracked voices,

shaking hands,

silent screams pressed

into pillowcases. 

Here,

art is a hobby

until it wins an award.

Music is noise

until a stage permits it.

Passion is a waste

unless it pays the bills. 

Imagine how many futures

were buried in classrooms,

how many geniuses

starved behind government walls,

how many masterpieces

burned unseen

for daring not to be academic. 

And I—

I mourn the self

I left behind,

the version of me

who dared to dream

before society taught me fear. 

This is not just a country.

This is a graveyard

of dead-buried dreams.

And I am one

of its many ghosts.

By Ujita Brahma