21/06/2026
𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐬 𝐌𝐲 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫
In the pen of: Hossain Mohammed Murad Meah
🌿
There are two kinds of silence in this world.
The first is the silence of a room where someone is simply absent — gone to the market, gone to work, gone on a journey from which they will return by evening.
The second is the silence of a room where someone will never return. Where the chair remains but the man who sat in it has become a memory. Where the walls still echo with a voice that no longer speaks. Where the air itself seems to hold its breath, waiting for a door that will never open again.
My father lives in the second silence.
And yet — and this is the defiance of love — he lives. Not "lived." Lives. Present tense. Permanent tense. Eternal tense. Because the bond between a child and the man who gave him life does not obey the laws of time. It does not expire with a death certificate. It does not dissolve with the soil. It does not fade with the years.
Father is my father. Was. Is. Will always be.
I wrote this poem not because I am a poet. I wrote it because I am a son. A son whose chest still carries a father. A son whose heart still beats to the rhythm of a mother's prayer. A son who became an orphan not by choice but by the decree of the One who gives and takes away.
And tonight, as I share these words with you, I am not asking for sympathy. I am asking for something far more valuable — I am asking you to pause. To close your eyes. To think of your own father. If he is still with you, call him. If he has departed, pray for him. And if, like me, you carry the weight of his absence in your chest, then know this:
You are not alone. This poem is yours too.
Read the full poem on my blog ⬇️
🔗 www.muraderkolom.com
𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆, 𝑫𝒂𝒅,
𝑩𝒆𝒚𝒐𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒊𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝒃𝒍𝒖𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒚.
𝑴𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒚, 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕, 𝒔𝒂𝒅,
𝑩𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒐𝒅𝒂𝒚.
— Hossain Mohammed Murad Meah
