MAN WITHOUT NAME

In halls he walked with steady grace,
A decade spent in duty's place,
With pen in hand and soul so true,
He built a name the world once knew.

Nine books bore witness to his flame,
His ink had carved the school’s own name.
More than thirty works he gave,
Each word a brick, each thought a wave.

But shadows came without a face,
No proof, no trial, no time, no grace.
A whisper cold, a faceless lie,
Brought clouds to blot his bright blue sky.

“Are you involved?”—the question bled,
No care for all the tears he shed.
No ear to hear, no eye to see,
The years he gave in loyalty.

A soul betrayed, a heart torn bare,
No truth could cleanse the bitter air.
He answered, “No,” with trembling breath—
But in that word, he met his death.

His spirit, crushed beneath the weight
Of trust denied and silent hate.
He walks now not with life or pride,
But as a ghost who once had tried.

O, mark these words and let them ring,
Of what it means when hearts we sting.
A man once gold, now pale and still—
The price of doubt, the cost of will.

Imran Nazeer
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