The Good God’s Cry

 Long ago, beneath the veil,

I heard a whisper soft and frail,

A voice not born from sky or stone,

But from a soul left all alone.

She spoke not loud, but deep and wide,

Her sorrow hidden, cast aside.

“This world,” she said, “is not my own,

It’s built from steel, not flesh and bone.

I did not craft this cruel parade

Of bombs and blood, of war and blade.

I wove the stars, the womb, the light—

But darkness seized me in the night.”

Imprisoned deep where silence weeps,

She watches as the shadow creeps.

They chant her name, but not in love,

They seek to chain the light above.

They build their towers on stolen grace,

Try to bottle heaven’s face.

But truth is not a thing to hold,

Nor spirit bought with blood or gold.

I saw her tears, I felt her ache,

The world asleep, yet wide awake.

And though I stand with mortal hands,

I vow to break those binding bands.

So if you hear the silent song,

Don’t let them tell you what is wrong.

The Good God weeps within the stone—

But not forever, not alone. - GULSHA BEGUM