By: Neha Priyan

If you believe my life’s a tale well-told,
You’ve touched the cover — the plain ‘ol leather bound
Book that destructs.
For ink has dried on truths you’ll never see,
Each letter screams, each silence pleads.

I hope you feel those pleading words.

Those yellowed pages? They’re just the start of a pain,
A chronicle. An annal. A religious verse. 

In the end, when all of us have turned to dust,
Let not your laughter make just of the grieving.
For death will come for all—the great, the small,
And take all of the ones who now stand.

So, cry not for me, but for her short spring—
The child who never heard a robin sing.

About the Poet: Neha Priyan is a Psychology student, artist, writer, and dedicated animal rescuer based in Bangalore, India. When she isn’t volunteering with her local street dogs or painting pet portraits, she is likely drafting future novels, baking, or diving deep into her interests — ranging from Greek mythology and musicals to classic literature and Pokémon. A firm believer in the magic of the mundane, Neha finds inspiration in the world around her and aims to publish her stories one day.

This poem was featured on Poetic Expressions 4.0 — our flagship poetry recital event.