MOHIT MITRA Poet Rhyme

Nothing Gained

—The Seller of the Last Unwanted Thing—

I found you where the markets lose their voices,
where merchants lower lamps and count their gain.
You stood among a thousand other choices,
your hands still full, your eyes still asking pain.
I said, “I have a thing you cannot measure.”
You laughed, as buyers laugh at hidden treasure.

I did not show a box, a ring, a token,
nor speak the language printed on a price.
The finest promises are often broken;
the costliest things are sold as being nice.
I had no banner, no convincing art—
only a quiet vacancy in my cart.

You asked me, “What is it?” I said, “That depends
on what you have been carrying all these years.”
You looked away, as tired and wounded friends
look when they do not wish to name their fears.
A man can carry kingdoms on his back
and still collapse beneath a childhood lack.

I once saw an old man by a window,
holding a coat that someone else had worn.
The room was full of photographs and shadow;
the morning entered gently, without scorn.
He touched the sleeve and whispered to the air,
as if the dead might still be waiting there.

I did not comfort him. I did not try.
Some wounds are doors that open from within.
Outside, a leaf fell upward through the sky,
returning to the branch it had not been.
The tree stood still. The world forgot its law.
The man looked up—and saw what he once saw.

Then slowly, like a man releasing breath,
he placed upon my table all he owned:
The names he feared would vanish after death,
the debts of love, the seeds of every stone.
I asked for nothing. He gave nothing too.
And somehow both of us departed new.

So here I stand. The offer still remains.
No miracle. No kingdom. No reward.
Just room enough to set aside your chains,
and hear the silence underneath the sword.
Take it or leave it. I will not persuade—
For what is truly yours was never made.

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