Silence is hard to write about, and the poem called "eimaan" does it in barely a dozen words that matter. It has two short stanzas. In the first, someone refuses to speak and sends back the speaker's love. In the second, the speaker finds that even writing about this person "seems cruel", and then the poem stops mid-gesture, with a hyphen where we expect a full stop. The central idea is a double bind. The speaker has been shut out of conversation, and the one outlet left, putting the hurt into words, feels like a wrong against the person who caused it.
The poem is built as one long sentence that holds back its main clause. Stanza one is all setup: "when you refuse / to speak to me / and throw back all the love / i have given". The sentence hangs on "when" and does not resolve until the second stanza, so the reader waits just as the speaker waits for a reply. The line breaks add to this. "Refuse" sits at the end of its line, so the word of rejection comes first and the thing refused, speech, arrives only on the next line. The refusal is felt before it is explained.
The imagery is small but physical. Love is treated as a gift, something "given", and the other person does not merely decline it but "throw[s] it back". That verb is violent and quick, much stronger than "return" or "decline" would be. The phrase "all the love" is the longest, heaviest line in the poem, packed with stressed monosyllables, and it is the one that gets hurled. "All" suggests the speaker held nothing back, which makes the rejection total too. The speaker's openness is set against the other person's closed door.
The poem has no rhyme and no regular metre. It is free verse in short lines, which suits a speaker too hurt for neat patterns. The lowercase "i" is a quiet choice. It makes the speaker look smaller and more tentative, and it fits a voice that hesitates to claim space even in its own poem. There is a faint sound-link across the stanzas, though: "refuse" and "cruel" share a long "oo" sound. This may be accidental, but it ties the other person's act to the speaker's judgment, so that the word for what is done to the speaker echoes in the word the speaker applies to themselves.
The second stanza turns on two small words. "Even" implies a ladder of lost options: speaking, giving, being heard have all gone, and now the last refuge, writing, is under threat. Then there is "seems". The speaker does not say that writing about you is cruel, only that it seems so. That hedge shows someone unsure of their own feelings, perhaps wondering whether their grief has turned into blame. Why would it be cruel? The poem leaves this open. Perhaps because writing about someone who will not answer is a one-sided speech, the speaker talking about a person who has refused to be talked to. Perhaps because turning the other person into a subject fixes them in words they never agreed to. The poem does not choose between these readings, and it is stronger for that.
The ending matters most. The final line breaks off with a hyphen, so the poem seems to lose its voice in the act of speaking. The silence the speaker complains of in stanza one arrives on the page in stanza two. The form carries out the content: the speaker says writing seems cruel and then more or less stops writing.
The title is a puzzle. Read in its Urdu and Arabic-derived sense, "eimaan" means faith, and if that is the intended meaning, it reframes everything. Giving love becomes an act of faith, and having it thrown back is a test of that faith. That is an inference, since the poem never mentions belief directly, but it fits the way the speaker keeps trusting, and keeps being gentle, even in the face of refusal. The "* * *" beneath the title looks like a section break, as if this fragment were a piece of something longer, though the poem itself gives no way to know.
The poem's significance lies in its restraint. It does not accuse, plead, or describe the quarrel. It holds back, and in doing so it shows how deep hurt can make a person careful, even protective of the one who caused it.