MOHIT MITRA Poet Lyric

Love's Audacity

—Who Does That Now?—



The old audacity is gone—who now would dare
to spend the heart where no return is due;
to stake one's inward kingdom nakedly there,
and give what, once surrendered, cannot accrue?
We have grown wise beneath the market's eye:
even our tenderness must justify.

I have watched a father at the hospital door
rehearse the cost of every borrowed hour;
a son send money, then send nothing more,
because the receipt had proved his filial power.
I have seen two lovers weigh a word unsaid,
each guarding what the other might have bled.

And love—who speaks that ancient word today
without some hidden clause beneath the tongue?
We give, but somewhere waits the inward how
much shall return, and when, and from whom?
The hand extends; the secret ledger wakes;
even the kiss has learnt what silence takes.

Some kneel because the grave has touched their door;
some seek a garden when their flesh grows old;
some praise the heavens lest the heavens keep score,
and dress their fear in sanctified gold.
Their foreheads bow; their inward arithmetic
keeps counting what the gods may yet remit.

Yet once I saw a woman leave her bread
beside a stranger sleeping in the rain;
she neither woke him, nor stood there to be read,
nor looked behind her when she crossed the lane.
The dawn found only crumbs upon the stone—
and nothing there to make the kindness known.

Then, for one breath, the universe broke rank:
the moon went dark inside the morning sun;
the stars seemed seeds the ruined heavens sank
beneath the earth, where no commandments run;
and from that unaccountable abyss
rose not a god, but something older than bliss.

Where no return remains, the heart still gives;
beyond all recompense, its giving lives.
Let need no longer counterfeit the prayer,
nor fear make heaven out of answered care;
for love, once loosed from recompense and claim,
becomes the one fire that does not ask the flame.

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Alison A Smith August 23, 2026 at 9:34 PM A powerful philosophical lyric, shaped with impressive formal control. The recurring language of markets, ledgers, receipts, and arithmetic makes the poem’s contrast with unaccounted-for generosity especially piercing. The quiet woman leaving bread is beautifully rendered: an anonymous act becomes the poem’s moral and cosmic turning point. The closing couplets carry real authority, affirming love as a gift beyond exchange, fear, or recognition. MOHIT MITRA August 23, 2026 at 9:52 PM Cherished Alison, 🌸 Your reading honours the poem more deeply than I can say. I am especially grateful that you noticed the movement from the language of markets and ledgers toward that nameless act of giving, for that was indeed the quiet heart of what I hoped the poem might discover. Your words are received with great gratitude. 🙌 Thank you for reading so attentively—and for hearing what lies beneath the verse. 🌹 Stay blest evermore, cherished Alison! ✨