Before the lights, before the stage,
She found her truth on a notebook page.
A whisper of tune, a half-said word,
A feeling too quiet, too deep to be heard.
In silent corners, her stories grew,
From sky-tinted mornings to midnight blue.
Rain on the windows, books by her bed —
Each line she lived, each lyric she bled.
She sang to the stars when no one knew,
Not for applause, but because it was true.
A voice unshaped by fame or fear,
Just soul in sound, soft and clear.
Now every song holds what she’s seen —
The hush between notes, the space in between.
A journey of heart, not just of art,
Where melody rises from every part.
— Piyashi Sengupta