MOHIT MITRA Poet Free verse

The Race For Hollow Gold

I saw a man at dawn beneath electric stars,
teaching his face the language of a stranger.

The mirror held him like a frozen lake
that had forgotten the river underneath.
He dressed his silence in a borrowed splendour,
and crowned his absence with a polished name.

A fragrance rose from his skin—
a little cathedral made of smoke—
and he believed, for one brief breath,
that perfume could outlive the body.

Upon the table lay his instruments:
a watch that consumed his hours,
a coat woven from approval,
a lens small enough to hold a world
yet heavy enough to imprison a soul.

He lifted it.

The smile arrived before the man.

Then the mirror rebelled.

It did not return his image.
It returned the child he had abandoned—
knees stained with earth,
hands holding a broken wooden bird,
still knowing flight was never purchased.

Outside, rain crossed the road.
An old worker carried bread through the storm;
his weathered hands held more kingdom
than the jewels of the celebrated.

Yet the race continued.

They chased the sun with golden nets,
capturing only their own shadows.
They built palaces from borrowed light
and called the emptiness within them wealth.

For hollow gold is a merciless fire:
it warms the hand,
but leaves the heart frozen.

Let them gather their magnificent illusions.
Time shall enter their marble halls
without fury, without trumpet, without sword,
and remove what was never theirs.

The final treasure shall make no claim.

No mirror shall reveal it.
No hand shall possess it.

It shall remain—

the quiet, unadorned flame
that was never bought,
never borrowed,
never lost.

Poet’s Note:

Date: June 23, 2026
Title Chosen: The Race For Hollow Gold
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh

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