Endless Mithila

Mithila, sleepless, walks
a shadow slipping over the hill of grief.
The burning fire of memory trails her,
its embers swallowed by mist.
Uncrossable
a fleeing cloud, uncertain, untethered,
While Time’s fan turns into a ruthless flame.

Mithila floats on sweaty waters,
sixteen years of youth folded in fatigue.
Bones ache,
muscles tremble,
and the humid air suffocates.
Around her, the fragile breath of mortality,
the cruel whisper of a vanishing time.

Lost in illusion, she walks alone
a swan without a companion,
adrift in the nostalgia of ruined desires.
Without lust, puberty cannot pass,
And memory becomes a bitter kin.

Life’s balance swings,
weighted by adversity’s silent hand.
Mithila, desolate at dusk,
faces the barren realm alone.

A realm like quicksand in the dark,
where drowning is the price of survival.
And yet
In her death, Mithila blooms eternal,
Rising from the ruins of her shattered youth.

Note about the poem:
This poem is inspired by the tragic story of Mithila, a young college girl in Bangladesh, whose life ended in despair, allegedly exploited by a powerful figure. Endless Mithila seeks to capture the pain, silence, and resilience of her spirit. Let it stand as both remembrance and resistance, a voice for the unheard, and a call to confront our collective neglect.

(Let this serve as a voice for those who are voiceless and a call to confront the shadows of our collective neglect.)