The Last Curtain Call Poem by Sumita Jetley

Suddenly, while walking, I felt it near,
A longing so deep, a truth so clear.
Not just this morning, but for years it stayed,
A shadow of beauty that never fades.

How do we touch what we cannot see?
Hold the untouchable, set it free?
Like seekers of opium, we crave, we yearn,
In the fire of longing, we scorch, we burn.

Ayaan, the boy with dreams too vast,
A star now etched in the world's broadcast.
From small-town streets to fame's embrace,
A golden boy with a haunted face.

His rise was sudden, a twist of fate,
A chance encounter opened the gate.
Raw intensity, a vulnerable light,
Turned him into a nation's delight.

But behind the glow, his soul did ache,
For Ishani, the storm he couldn't forsake.
She wasn't sunlight, soft and warm,
She was thunder, a brewing storm.

They met in days of humble despair,
When dreams were whispers in fragile air.
She believed in him, but he, in her,
A bond unspoken, yet strong as fire.

But life is cruel; it tears, it bends,
Love often falters when ambition ascends.
She left for a path that called her name,
And he found solace in art and fame.

Years rolled by, and fame turned cold,
The warmth of love replaced by gold.
When she returned, with fire anew,
Their worlds collided, too bright to view.

She became his muse, his haunting song,
Each performance deeper, dark, and strong.
But fame has teeth; it bites, it scars,
It cages the soul and dims the stars.

Raqs-e-Janan, his masterpiece cried,
Of longing, of love, of souls that collide.
The world applauded, yet turned away,
Calling his truth reckless, astray.

He vanished then, into shadows deep,
Where memories linger and silence weeps.
A grainy clip, his voice laid bare,
A haunting melody, raw despair.

The world fell silent, caught in his pain,
But Ayaan never returned again.
His absence spoke what words could not,
The thin line crossed, the lessons taught.

Because art isn't comfort—it's the truth we chase,
A tempest of beauty, impossible to embrace.

And though we ache for what we can't possess,
It's the craving itself that leaves us blessed.