MOHIT MITRA Poet Rhyme

The Sacred Smallness

—The Ancient Law of the Lowered Hand—

No chronicle remembered the man beside the village wall,
The one who gathered broken cups where the forgotten slept.
He mended a child's clay bowl with a thread too worn and small,
While rain tapped on the stones and evening shadows crept.
No stone preserved the kindness of his name or marked his call;
The world walked past him quietly, yet grace remembered all.

An old king mended a child's broken wheel beside the stone,
While winter's pale fingers combed the fields of sleeping grain.
His crown rested in the dust; his hands were not his own—
They belonged to mercy, not to glory, pride, or reign.
The child saw no ruler beneath the fading sky,
Only a hand that taught a broken thing to try.

A scholar left his vaulted halls before the morning bell,
And swept the ashes from a widow's cold and silent hearth.
He found beside the fire a little wooden doll that fell
From a child's forgotten hands before the winter darkened earth.
No book had ever spoken with such quiet truth or grace
As the dust upon his fingers and the kindness in his face.

I saw a gardener beside a tree struck hollow by the storm.
His old coat carried rain; his hands were stained with soil.
He placed his ear against the wound and listened through the night,
As if the broken wood still held some hidden voice of life.
Within the emptiness there stirred no leaf, no root, no form—
Yet something in that silence leaned quietly toward light.

Then from the mountain's oldest silence came a gentler fire,
A flame without a shadow, a warmth without a name.
It rested like a child asleep beside a broken lyre,
While forgotten stars grew still around its quiet flame.
The heavens did not descend; the earth did not ascend—
A breath remained before all things began and after all things end.

Let marble keep its thunder, let towers challenge time.
Let kings be carved in stone and kingdoms turn to dust below.
The lowered hand will travel where no monuments can climb,
Through hidden fields where only humble mercies grow.
And when the final star is gathered beyond the edge of night,
A nameless hand will still be there, returning borrowed light.

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