MOHIT MITRA Poet Rhyme

Snowy Sun

—How to Thank Life for the Blow—



O Life, give ear—when thy disdainful tongue
strikes where my name has learned itself to stand,
and one syllable, though lightly flung,
falls through the ribs of what I understand—
must I, because the fibres ache,
call love a falsehood for the wound's own sake?

I have known speech accomplish what the sword
could scarcely do, though blood would mark its art;
one word may leave the mouth, yet lodge unseen
within the bastions of the listening heart,
and after the speaker's breath is gone,
still toll beneath the silence like a bell at dawn.

I will not crown abasement into grace,
nor make diminishment a lover's creed;
no tenderness requires me to efface
the sovereign line beyond which I recede;
I name the wound—and naming it, I know
that love does not make the injury less so.

Then reason broke its staff: the trees drove roots
up through the blue, beyond the mortal span,
while streams forsook their valleys and their routes
to climb the hills as silver rivers ran;
gravity, whose laws were known,
withdrew—and there arose the Snowy Sun alone.

Its pallid fire made winter's darkness bright,
as though the night had learnt another name;
the cold became a species of light,
and frost burned upward without ash or flame;
a flower drank midnight from its stem,
while stars grew black in a diadem.

O Life, give ear—I have not loved thee less
because thy hand has schooled my blood in pain;
nor shall I dress self-erasure as tenderness,
nor kneel to prove the bond I would retain;
the wound may enter, but it shall not reign
within the sovereign chamber of my name.

The blow is thine; its meaning is not thine—
what thou hast done shall never become my name;
I may defend the sovereignty that's mine
and still preserve the embers of the flame;
I may refuse the hand that deals the pain,
yet keep the love that taught my heart to remain.

Thus, Life, if thou shouldst strike me, let me feel—
I shall not forge an adamantine breast;
nor sanctify the hand that makes me kneel,
nor call self-betrayal love's profoundest test;
I can say No where dignity commands,
and still let love burn cleanly in my hands.

And should the trees root heavenward once more,
while rivers climb the hills in argent flight,
and the Snowy Sun suspend above the shore
its frozen aureole of fathomless light,
I shall not ask what overturned the blue—
I shall remain; and love shall remain too.

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Sotto Poet August 21, 2026 at 5:38 AM Dear Mohit, your fantastic poem is beautifully written and deep in imagery, delving into the themes of pain, love, and personal sovereignty. The diction is so eloquent, capturing the complexity of responding to life's challenges without losing one's sense of self or capacity to love. Your refusal to let adversity define them is both powerful and tender. While the poem's intricate style adds depth and resonance to the exploration of resilience and dignity. A fave MOHIT MITRA August 21, 2026 at 9:30 AM Esteemed Sir Poet, thy reading hath touched me more deeply than these poor words can compass. To be so discerningly seen by a poet of thy rare stature is a grace I shall long treasure. Yet thy generous appreciation lays upon me not ease, but a nobler responsibility: henceforth I must strive the harder, and write more worthily, that thy kindness may not have been bestowed in vain, but that I may labour to prove thy faith in these poor verses well-earned and justly deserved. For such encouragement, I remain profoundly, humbly grateful. 💕✨🌹

Alison A Smith August 21, 2026 at 4:37 AM A powerful, philosophically poised poem: it refuses the false choice between love and self-respect. The “Snowy Sun” and inverted natural laws beautifully embody the shock of injury—yet the speaker remains lucid, naming the wound without allowing it to define them. The repeated insistence that love may endure without self-erasure gives the ending real strength and dignity. MOHIT MITRA August 21, 2026 at 4:43 AM Cherished Alison, I am deeply humbled by thy generous reading, and still more by thy unwavering encouragement, which hath so often lent these poor lines the courage to continue. Thy discerning words do more than praise—they strengthen the hand that writes. ✍️ My heartfelt gratitude for standing by the work with such constancy and grace. Such encouragement is no small gift to a poet. ✨🕊️🌹