The Muse of Mithila

Across the countless stars above,
I found you, woman,
a muse shaped in divine gravity.
The weight of thirty-three crore gods
presses upon my neck,
my head bowed to a gourd’s slender stem.
You cannot decipher its secret, woman.

I was the first man to fall for Durga,
to offer my youth at her feet.
Lakshmi’s lips bore my first kiss,
her warmth, a wound engraved in time.
Such a fire once scorched Nirmala, too.
But my instinctive silence
could never unlock
The riddle of her womb.

My body, an altar to the Goddess
remains still, unyielding.
The fever in my blood
found no relief in Bhagirathi’s flow.
Woman, they sing of me in temple halls;
Vasudeva’s flute breathes through my lungs.
And yet, soulless, I am Madhav
enchanted, untouched by your indifference,
lost in the illusion of my longing.

Drunk on desire, I reach for a mirage
That slips from my grasp
The truth of myself
mocked by your silence.