The Other Face Poem by BASAB CHAUDHURI

Society—
not exactly what you see,
but the other face of it:

where the existence of man is lifted slightly higher,
where human values breathe more freely,
where compassion rises like the tip of an iceberg
breaking through dark water,

where a beggar on the street
feels seen
and dares to lift his head,

where torn and tattered, defeated, vanquished,
a man can still feel honored.

That is what I mean.

The other face—
the one you never see.

It is a dream, somewhere in the mind.
You feel it only sometimes.
Sometimes you weep in ecstasy.
And then—only then—
it begins to crawl into view,
slowly, like beetles emerging from hidden earth.

Then, and only then,
you begin to feel the pain
of real life, real living—
clear, understated, mysterious,
profound, prolific,
eternally beautiful.

The other face matters more
than what shines outward.

Who cares for beauty that only reflects?
Real beauty absorbs.
The other face dazzles from within illumination.
Tears rolling down that hidden face
distill into the wisdom
man has always craved.