Come, unseal my chest, look within,
Where tired reliance weaves shadows thin.
A conscience, desolate, a skeletal wail,
Yet love’s undulating whispers prevail.

Through four and a half thousand fleeting days,
Tonight’s sublime fire, jealousy sways.
I spark, electric with magnetism’s art,
A secret architect shaping the heart.

Edward Leedskalnin’s weary sighs
They linger in Coral Castle’s skies.
At midnight’s call, they rouse me deep,
Footsteps of Agnes stir my sleep.

Is she returning to shatter my doubt?
I open my chest to dreams poured out.
There, Mithila hides, a moon concealed,
Her soft glow divine, her heart revealed.

In mortality’s flood, I am adrift,
Yet wonder stirs, indifferent, swift.
Tonight, for Mithila’s joy, I devise,
A regretful gift, where my sorrow lies.

By melting wax and midnight’s gleam,
I compose of love, a seductive dream.
Not for Mumtaz or Pompadour’s fame,
But for Mithila, a history’s name.

I believe, one day, skies will clear,
A garden of doubt, vibrant, appears.
In awe, I’ll wander that unknown stream,
To find me a South Stone epitaph.