bhaskar saikia

There is a strange beauty in incompleteness. We often chase perfection, believing that only the finished, the refined, the whole is worthy of admiration. But in the company of an incomplete poem, we find something more—endless possibility.

Sitting in the quiet solitude of a cabin by the woods, I gaze through the window at the vast sky, where countless stars shimmer like scattered verses of an unwritten masterpiece. The wilderness stretches beyond, guarded by towering pines, their silent presence akin to ancient sentinels. Fireflies dance like floating lanterns, fleeting yet radiant, while the distant hills rise like the Giant Pyramids, whispering secrets of time and eternity.

As darkness devours the world and the last remnants of light dissolve into oblivion, I find myself contemplating the wonders of existence. Everything in this universe—every person, every story, every fragment of thought—is interconnected. My incomplete poem, too, belongs to the same grand design. Just as the stars do not need a pattern to shine, a poem does not need a perfect ending to be meaningful.

The crackling fire beside me consumes the wood, much like love consumes the soul—wild, unrestrained and intoxicating. And yet, a single word can complete a poem. A single moment can reconnect us to a world once lost. Perhaps, then, nothing is ever truly incomplete; it is simply waiting for its moment of fulfillment.

Tonight, my heart rests in peace—not because I have reached an end, but because I have embraced the journey. I am not dead. I am alive. And my heart is wiser now, for it has found solace in imperfection. In the company of an incomplete poem, I understand: all are one and one is all.