MOHIT MITRA Poet Rhyme

Billet of Flight

It starts with ink that trembles
     along the fragile page,
   A gentle weight,
     the hush of morning’s stage;


  Like fledglings poised
     upon a trembling bough,
   Unsure of air,
     yet certain they know how.


  The pen exhales,
     a breath pressed into line,
   And fibers drink
     the pulse of measured time;


  Her soul, not form,
     I trace—a distant flame,
   A horizon reached
     by gestures without name.


  Each word ascends,
     a hesitant, careful hop,
   Then lifts once more,
     reluctant to let drop;


  A glance remembered,
     fingers brushing air,
   A tremor caught
     in morning’s softened glare.


  The epistle leans
     into the patient night,
   Its weight both fragile
     and irrevocably right;


  I whisper humour
     lightly along the margin’s fold:
   “sun_final, sun_final_revised,
     sun_final_final”—told.


  Distance tempers longing,
     slow and exquisitely true,
   As fledglings test the sky
     before they finally flew;


  Ink traces currents
     invisible, delicate, slight,
   Mapping hidden arcs
     of thought in flight.


  The room hums faintly,
     cedar scent in air,
   A bird shifts softly,
     quivering without care;


  I follow, unpressing,
     letting meaning rise,
   As hope unfolds
     beneath unspoken skies.


  At last the fledgling arcs,
     its motion irrevocable,
   And I—still learning—trace
     each careful, measured fold;


  Fingers resting lightly,
     love a fragile gift,
   Knowing ascent
     requires both tremor and lift.

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