A frozen soul—
not merely cold,
but carved from the absence of light,
a void where the echoes of dreams
collapse into silence.
What does it mean to feel?
Is it warmth, or is it the fire
we once used to burn each other?
Perhaps, in the ashes, we froze—
not by chance, but by choice.
Humanity, a distant memory,
fractured like ancient glass.
Once whole, once tender,
now scattered fragments
we step over without thought.
We no longer cry for the fallen.
Our tears have been bartered
for hollow victories,
our hearts traded for power
that crumbles in clenched fists.
Who are we, in this stillness?
Where did the threads of belonging fray?
Is it the world that turned away from us,
or we from the world,
when the weight of truth grew too heavy?
Perhaps beneath the ice
there is something older,
something deeper than pain.
Not a flame,
but the raw, unyielding pulse of being—
a rhythm no frost can silence.
Can we shatter this frozen shell,
or does it hold us safe from the winds
we no longer understand?
Would we dare face the raw, jagged edges
of the selves we buried alive?
Lost humanity may not return.
It is not a river flowing back to its source.
But perhaps we can dig deeper—
past the frost, the ruin,
to find a new truth:
not warm, not cold,
but alive.
-Rashid Ali Ghazipuri