Plough pressed deep into the soil,
its furrows hum to forgotten tunes,
Morningglory and Primula dance,
an extensive garden flirting with time.

The moon dips low in Kirtankhola’s embrace,
it’s silver light stolen by rays of nostalgia.
Mithila’s adolescence
burns beneath the rain’s relentless touch,
the sweet agony of memories
trailing like smoke on water.

Still, the scent of longing lingers
a raw, primal ache.
Veins of flesh dissolve,
melting into eruptions of desire,
the clay of creation kneaded anew
a human embryo rising from the dust.

Trust unfolds, unfurls,
like the vibrant fan of a peacock’s feathers,
stretching wide over the peaceful hut of the chest.
Within, secrets murmur,
whispering of Mithila’s reversed path,
where direction bends and time loops.

Troubled nights lie wide-eyed,
restless, sleepless,
a heartbeat trapped
in the enigma of her turning tides.