Midnight gnaws the marrow of darkness,
its shadowed flesh crumbles into the city of forests.
Mithila stirs, half-dreaming
her sky weeps spells of silvered sorrow,
while ambitions, gilded and sharp,
leap from her mountains, diving into desert mirages.
The city glows, yet swarms with locusts,
But, Mithila’s youth swallowed by darkness.
The body of the cloud boiled
Cooked fat of the fertile body,
boil to ash…
The thorns pierce the uterus.
Fertile body rendered dry.
Flow of blood mingled with bathwater,
A duck drifts, weightless,
on the trembling chest of Mithila’s lake.
Mithila awakens, inscribed in a tome of sighs,
her forests smouldering in the pyre of their lament.
A wild wind wails beneath the full moon;
time hangs,
a lone ornament around Mithila’s neck
a priceless jewel,
polished by betrayal.
Night unfolds her veils,
revealing only mysteries,
only shadows of untold tales,