Faruk Ahmed Roni Poet Free verse

Notes About The Poem

The poem unfolds like a dream, wandering between desire and desolation. It holds the scent of scorched memories, the ache of unfulfilled love, and the quiet rebellion of a soul refusing to disappear. Through cactus-thorns, moonlit longing, and star-ridden introspection, reveal youth not as a season of ease, but as a trembling page, half-burning, half-remembered, where hope and emptiness meet in the same breath.

The Other Page of Youth

The night sinks into a sleepy spell,
like a wanderer lost in the intoxication of opium.
Woven from restless threads of fire,
a landscape of artificial memories rises.
With shattered faith, I search again
for tender, illusory lips,
Yet every touch becomes a cactus thorn
breaking through desert stone,
and on my parched chest
a scorching blaze roars on.

With sky-sized thoughts, I once held
the world within my palm,
the same hand that carries the ache of gentle sorrow,
the same hand that keeps the tireless memory
of touching you,
My lifelong devotion to love.
O weary life, indifferent whim,
Do not let me fade away.
There is still something left
of all I’ve sacrificed.
Grant me, at last, a taste of fulfilment.

In shrinking and changing,
I lost myself and became a vein beneath the skin.
A miraculous maze swirls around me
in a world steeped in prejudice.
I am absorbed in uprooting
the hidden senses of a sky full of stars.
My own thoughts grow greedy for me,
a wavering silence in the hollows of the heart…

A night drunk on desire,
moonlight glistening like rhythm in my pulse.
My bashful, beloved body twists itself
around my two legs.
Through the stillness breaks a pungent,
burned scent, slipping into every crease
of my panting breath.
At the festival dusk descends
a subtle, saddened longing,
and the harbour of my heart
flutters with restlessness.

The moss-covered, lively grasshoppers of emptiness
are exiled today, withdrawn.
Youth, drunk on the wine of night,
casts off its homely burdens
and reveals time’s three faces.
With its beak lifted, it crosses
the rambling city of confusion,
and even streaming rains
cannot wash shame away.
The inevitable self moves through all of it,
like a ripened body
in Chaitra’s harvest fields.

The intoxicated night devours me whole.
From life’s canvas,
luxurious dreams tumble down in heaps.
The marketplace of the world moves on
by its own laws of immortality,
and the opium-drenched night
keeps me spinning in eager dreamlust,
in the naked deceit
of bewildered memory.

Note:
Chaitra-  the dry season month in the Bengali calendar.

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Paula Goldsmith December 17, 2025 at 12:45 PM What a creative write you have here. Have a fun day writing away............. Faruk Ahmed Roni December 17, 2025 at 4:03 PM Thank you, my friend, for your kind words and for taking the time to read and reflect on my poem. I truly appreciate it.