MOHIT MITRA Poet Rhyme

After the Heart

—Kindly Venom—



The heart is dead; yet I, who housed its fire,
Rise with the dawn and fasten up the day;
I bear its silence where the streets conspire
To make the living seem to have their way.
At every gate the ordinary starts;
No bell is tolled for kingdoms lost in hearts.

I buy my bread beneath the market's cry,
Watch iron shutters climb their daily height;
A boy counts coins; a woman haggles by;
The butcher's blade flashes and leaves the light.
The world performs its little rites so well
That grief itself must learn to say, “All's well.”

And when you ask me, “Are you well?” I smile—
Not from deceit, but from a gentler art:
The tongue knows how to spare the world a while
The knowledge that it carries a dead heart.
I say, “I am well,” and let the sentence stand;
Some truths grow cruel when placed in another's hand.

For I have learned what bitter medicines know:
The draught that saves may first resemble death;
Some wounds refuse the balm that soothes them slow
And choose the darker sacrament of breath.
Thus poison, entering where mercy failed,
Keeps one small kingdom from becoming veiled.

At night I hear the blood pursue its course,
Though nothing answers from the inner throne;
The moon hangs mute above the city's hoarse
Machinery, and makes the streets its own.
I do not summon back what chose to cease;
The dead are not persuaded by our peace.

So if you pray, pray not that I be made
The man I was before the silence came;
Pray that I walk beneath the common shade,
Still carrying this unanswerable flame—
That I may rise, work, speak, and disappear
Without demanding that the world come near.

Then once, beyond the edge of thought, I saw
A black sun flowering beneath the sea;
Its light climbed rootward through the speechless thaw
And woke a star that had forgotten me.
I asked no meaning of that impossible light.
It entered me—and did not make me right.

Therefore I ask no cure, no sign, no art
To counterfeit the life that has withdrawn.
The heart may cease, yet something bears the heart
As earth bears fire beneath a field at dawn.
I am not healed. I do not ask you why.
Just pray for me. I have enough of life to die.

♡Like0

Share Poem

---

Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.

Please Login to post a comment

Alison A Smith nee Howarth August 22, 2026 at 2:32 AM A deeply affecting and beautifully crafted poem, Mohit. Its measured rhyme and restrained voice give grief an extraordinary dignity, while images such as the “black sun flowering beneath the sea” linger hauntingly. The closing plea is devastatingly honest and profoundly moving.❤️ MOHIT MITRA August 22, 2026 at 4:25 AM Alison, I am deeply humbled by the generosity with which you have received this poem. Your words have touched the very wound from which the poem was written, and I am grateful that you heard, beneath its measured music, the silence it was trying to bear. And may I ask you one small, almost shy question, dear Alison—now that you have read its final plea: "are you praying for me now, knowing that I have enough of life to die?" Perhaps that is the gentlest question the poem leaves behind. Thank you, truly, for meeting its darkness not with fear, but with such tender understanding. ❤️ ✨ Sty blest evermore!