50 Faces of Separation
Under the Walls of Silence: When Separation Learns to Speak
Some poems are not written to be read aloud.
They are written to be felt quietly, slowly, in the spaces where words usually fail.
“Under the Walls of Silence” is one such poem from 50 Faces of Separation. When I wrote it, I wasn’t trying to explain pain or decorate grief with language. I was simply sitting with a silence that had grown heavier than sound itself. This poem came from that place where longing rests on the lips but refuses to be spoken, where emotions remain hidden, even from those closest to us.
In this poem, silence is not empty. It bleeds, it listens, it remembers. Tears do not fall loudly; they perform their miracles without witnesses. There is a sense that everything meaningful happens beneath the surface behind closed eyes, within wounded hearts, inside the long nights where even dreams seem afraid to speak.
The imagery of night, ash, dust, and broken dreams is intentional. Separation does not arrive all at once. It settles slowly, fragment by fragment, until even familiar emotions feel distant. The soul continues to breathe, but in a muted way, carrying colours of desire that no longer know how to reveal themselves.
What moves me most about this poem is its quiet resistance. Even wrapped in ash, even buried under silence, something survives. A tear. A glance. A line of verse. In the desert of being, only a few instruments of recognition remain but they are enough to remind us that we are still here, still feeling, still human.
When I write, I often find that my verses become companions to my own pain. In this poem, I allowed that truth to exist openly. There are moments when poetry does not heal, but it listens and sometimes, that is all the heart needs.
Under the Walls of Silence is not asking to be understood completely. It is asking to be sat with. If you have ever carried unspoken longing, if you have ever trusted a sigh more than a sentence, this poem already knows you.
Thank you for reading, for feeling, and for allowing these words to breathe alongside your own silences.
Zeeshan Ameer Saleemi
Some poems are not written to be read aloud.
They are written to be felt quietly, slowly, in the spaces where words usually fail.
“Under the Walls of Silence” is one such poem from 50 Faces of Separation. When I wrote it, I wasn’t trying to explain pain or decorate grief with language. I was simply sitting with a silence that had grown heavier than sound itself. This poem came from that place where longing rests on the lips but refuses to be spoken, where emotions remain hidden, even from those closest to us.
In this poem, silence is not empty. It bleeds, it listens, it remembers. Tears do not fall loudly; they perform their miracles without witnesses. There is a sense that everything meaningful happens beneath the surface behind closed eyes, within wounded hearts, inside the long nights where even dreams seem afraid to speak.
The imagery of night, ash, dust, and broken dreams is intentional. Separation does not arrive all at once. It settles slowly, fragment by fragment, until even familiar emotions feel distant. The soul continues to breathe, but in a muted way, carrying colours of desire that no longer know how to reveal themselves.
What moves me most about this poem is its quiet resistance. Even wrapped in ash, even buried under silence, something survives. A tear. A glance. A line of verse. In the desert of being, only a few instruments of recognition remain but they are enough to remind us that we are still here, still feeling, still human.
When I write, I often find that my verses become companions to my own pain. In this poem, I allowed that truth to exist openly. There are moments when poetry does not heal, but it listens and sometimes, that is all the heart needs.
Under the Walls of Silence is not asking to be understood completely. It is asking to be sat with. If you have ever carried unspoken longing, if you have ever trusted a sigh more than a sentence, this poem already knows you.
Thank you for reading, for feeling, and for allowing these words to breathe alongside your own silences.
Zeeshan Ameer Saleemi
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