MOHIT MITRA Poet Sonnet

Nigh, My Heart

—A Sonnet of the Unlosable—




The knots our words had wrought no hand could loose;
we drew them taut, yet they drew us more near,
till silence, cinctur’d close, became the use
of all the words our tongues had perish’d here.
At dusk the watchman’s staff struck fire from stone.
One iron syllable went through the lanes;
“Night hath no covenant with sleep alone.”
The dark pass’d on. It kept its watch in veins.
When lips grow ash’n, and speech itself is spent,
I’ll find thy wrist; my fingers shall retain
the quick, small thunder of thy pulse, content
to beat beneath my hand through night and pain.
       Thou think’st some war shall make thee leave mine eye—
       Nay, close mine eyes; thou’lt still be there, not I.

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