MOHIT MITRA Poet Free verse

Civitas Sensuum

—De Civili Anima—

I pray thee—
not for dominion,
nor the arithmetic of crowns,
nor engines that bend dust to kneel—

but for a revolution quiet as marrow,
slow as the patient geometry of stars.

Make every human a poet.

Not a composer of verses,
but a keeper of perception—
who feels the leaf before naming it,
hears the river before measuring it,
knows the stone as memory of mountains.

The world moves
with learned deafness.

Men cross forests
as through furniture.

Rivers speak in fluent republics,
yet engines answer.

Animals announce astonishments of life,
and we translate them into meat.

In the first grammar of creation
another ordinance stood:

feeling before command,
listening before tongue,
one breath troubling another’s breast.

But we—
skilled in every instrument but the heart—
have annulled that covenant.

We hear the word
and flee the tremor beneath it.

A man weeps—
another records his grammar
while sorrow itself
falls through the floor of the world.

I ask not miracle
but restoration.

Attention returns
as bread to hunger.

Teach the child—
before doctrine, before ambition—
the grave courtesy of perception:

how wind debates among grasses,
how the moon rehearses silence above ruins,
how even a rusted nail retains
the biography of a mountain.

Then men shall behold their equals—
not as rivals of possession,
but immense fragilities
walking beside them.

Sometimes,
at the narrow ledge of conscience,
the old rhyme rises:

                                                   Break no heart, nor tear apart;
                                                             for earth and soul compose one whole.

A mother hears fatigue
in a stranger’s breath.
A child spares the ant
crossing his republic of dust.

Rivers as elders.
Stones as witnesses.

Once—
beyond the patience of theology—

a city of lamps rises from fields
like pollen of living fire,
each window holding
a listening heart.

Yet I petition no grandeur beyond this:

that I begin.
I shall teach my children
the art of attention—
how metaphor kneels before mercy,
how rhythm follows another’s breath,
how the smallest word
may shelter a universe of care.

They shall learn
that 
                                                                     poetry is not ornament
                                                                                but citizenship of the soul.

From their patient hands,
as gardens ascend from faithful soil,
a gentler habitation gathers upon the earth—

until rivers remember us kindly,
and patient stones
rise at last into speech—

the world itself
revealed
as the long-intended poem.

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