MOHIT MITRA Poet Rhyme

Love is Naught

—Of Wings, Hooves, and the Silence That Commands—



“Begone,” the taper breathed, “ere thou be bright
within the gold that shall devour thy frame;
mine aureole is honeyed, yet o’ernight
death keeps his masque within the heart of flame.
Yet still the moth, bewitched beyond release,
did seek his pyre as though he sought for peace.

For what availeth counsel when desire
hath made the wit its tributary thrall?
He saw the pyre, yet deemed its lucent fire
more dear than life, and heeded not the call;
till, through the last, incandescent hour,
his ruin wore the regalia of power.

So with the steed—rebuke him not with scar,
nor flay the hide whereon his wild blood beats;
a whispered word may travel farther far
than iron curb or spur beneath his feet;
yet let his mistress veil her face away—
and all his thunder shall forget the day.

No rein constrains him; no imperious hand
hath mastery of his tempestuous might;
the stable yawns upon the moonlit land,
the wet leaves glimmer in the argent night;
the whole wide welkin bids the creature flee—
yet something absent hath commanded, “Be.”

What strange puissance hath silence won o’er bone,
what unseen sceptre reigneth o’er his will,
that he, whose hooves might shake the earth alone,
stands hushed where every road beyond lies still?
The moth mistakes the fire for paradise;
the steed beholds her silence in his eyes.

The moth became the ash the fire desired;
the steed grew still beside her silent door;
both gave the breath by which their love was fired,
yet heard no voice they had been waiting for;
the fire burned on; her silence answered, “Stay”—
and both obeyed it, dying, into day.

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Speaks Volumes September 21, 2026 at 12:16 AM The moth bewitched, as moths often are, to descend toward the light of the flame to its own demise. Ah but such loyalty displayed by the faithful steed, to ignore such silent warnings of danger. I see its intention to be protector of its mistress as creatures such as horses and dogs often are. Your story interests me, as I adore reading scribes that allow the reader to interpret what lies within the masterful words of the poet.

Sotto Poet September 7, 2026 at 1:45 PM Mohit, your great poem beautifully intertwines themes of desire, power, and the silent influence of unseen forces. The striking imagery of the moth drawn to the flame and the untamed steed quietly submitting adds depth and poignancy to the narrative. The language, though intricate, effectively captures the mystical allure and inevitable fate faced by both creatures. While the style may feel elaborate for some, it fits well in conveying the timeless struggle between passion and restraint. It's a moving piece with rich metaphoric layers. MOHIT MITRA September 7, 2026 at 7:52 PM Dear Sir Poet, 🌸 Thine rich and gracious eyes, so kindly laid upon my vulnerable verses, have proved a balm divine unto their wounded souls. Methinks, no wealth of words could e’er suffice my gratitude for the humble blessings thou dost so munificently shower upon this poor soul. Thy kindness hath touched a chamber where even speech must kneel, and silence become thanksgiving. ❤️‍🩹 ✨ A Benediction ✨ "Thy gaze descended softly from the skies, And touched the wounds where trembling verses lay; A star awoke within their veiled disguise, And turned their midnight sorrow into day; Where thou hast blessed, no mortal words may tell— For thou hast made my wounded verses well."