Stellara

—An Astronomy of What Love Leaves Behind— There are nights when heaven dons its argent hush, and all the stars seem less to glitter than to keep their elder watch over the fathomless remainder of the world. A train goes through the fields. One window briefly ensnares a face—then yields it back to night. Yet nothing yields back what it has touched. A word may enter blood. A kindness, long after its utterance, may burgeon in another's darkest hour. A father's voice, long since surrendered to silence, may haunt the cadence of a daughter's speech. Thus absence is no vacancy. It is continuance wearing the vesture of loss. The dead do not ascend. They permeate. They pass beneath the common skin of things like telluric fire beneath a winter field, altering what they nevermore can touch. What love once enters, time cannot expel; It makes the soul the place where causes dwell. And far above, the stars— those sepulchral reliquaries of flame— still pour their antique splendour down long after their furnaces are ash. What strange celestial jurisprudence: that light should outlive its begetter, that tenderness should outlive the hand, that one mortal life should leave its impress upon a life it shall never behold? Then, between two stars, the darkness opens— not as a wound, but as an iris for which creation has forgotten the colour. For one breath, the void grows lucent. I look away. Some immensities become profaned the moment language lays its hand upon them. And I understand—though understanding fails me— we are not preserved by remembrance. We are preserved by alteration. Whatever has entered another soul has crossed beyond the sovereignty of return; it cannot be restored to what it was before the crossing. I thought the stars preserved the dead in light; They showed me how the living make them bright. The stars may perish into their own abyss. The dead may relinquish every name. But what has once entered another life becomes an irrevocable syllable in the grammar of its becoming— and what has altered the living cannot be made unborn.
Copyright © | Year Posted 2026

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Smith  Avatar
August 8, 2026 at 10:17 PM
nothing yields back what it has touched. continuance wearing the vesture of loss. light should outlive its begetter, we are not preserved by remembrance.We are preserved by alteration. But what has once entered another life becomes an irrevocable syllable in the grammar of its becoming— As always your words entranse by soul.🌹
MITRA Avatar
August 8, 2026 at 10:33 PM
Alison, I am deeply grateful for your generous reading. 🙏 Your words mean a great deal to me. I have often felt that when language springs from lived experience—not merely from imagination, but from something one has truly endured, loved, lost, or witnessed—it acquires a different kind of truth. It becomes less an invention and more a recognition. Perhaps that is why certain words enter the soul before the mind has time to understand them. Thank you for meeting the poem there. 🌹 "What life has written into the blood, no art can wholly counterfeit; the word becomes most true and good when lived experience speaks through it." In shared wonder, Mohit Mitra
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