His Silence Poem by Bishnupada Sethi

When the last ray fades,
the throne of light stands empty.
The great doors of Konark are closed.
He does not burn without cease—
God chooses when to shine.

Once His glory poured forth;
now stillness waits
the moment He withdraws.
That stillness we call "night."

Night does not move.
It was there before the first dawn,
ancient, perfectly obedient.
The instant God falls silent,
night is simply there.

Light arrives because He speaks;
darkness returns because He withholds.

Darkness is no enemy—
it is His servant,
held on an unseen leash.
When He commands, suns are kindled;
when He withholds, the void kneels.

We chase light across the ages—
torches, stars, split atoms—
terrified of the dark that waits beyond the lamp.
We never understood:
the dark is not against us;
it is only the shadow
cast when God stands still.

So I bow
not only to the blazing
but to the moment He withholds the blaze.
Mercy dwells in the giving of light;
sovereignty dwells in its taking away.

One day He will speak the final silence.
The last star will go out
with the hush of a Master closing His hand.
Then darkness will not rush in—
it will simply step forward,
calm, faithful, older than time,
and take again its ancient place.

And in that vast, complete night
we will finally understand:
even this belongs to Him.
Long before He ever said, "Let there be light, "
He looked upon the dark
and called it good.