MOHIT MITRA Poet Rhyme

Toward 2026

Toward 2026 

The year stands knock’d at Time’s expectant gate,
With quiet hands that do not prophesy fate;
No crown of fire, no trumpet split the air—
Just numbered days that ask us how we’ll bear.

We name it new, as though the clock could dispense
The debts of thought, the scars we call expense;
Yet years are mirrors, polish’d thin and bright,
They show us not the date, but how we sight.

In twenty-six, the sun shall still arise,
Indiff’rent to our vows and alibis;
The poor shall wake, the powerful still scheme,
And truth remain more costly than it seem.

Some trust the year to mend what broke before,
As though a turn absolves the unpaid score;
Others foresee decline by laws of age,
And read the future like a closing page.

But years do naught but lend us borrowed ground;
’Tis we who choose what meaning shall be found;
The calendar turns—yet leaves untouched the task
To live unmask’d, or perish in the mask.

So let 2026 stand plain and still,
Not saviour crown’d, nor doom by written will;
A threshold only—mute, and waiting true
For what our measured courage dares to do.

For Time keeps faith with neither fear nor cheer—
We shape the year, or drift as passengers here.

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