The Last Station of Waiting

Long ago, Mithila was left at this forsaken station, As the train slipped away on the wrong track, cutting all horizons. There was no return Mithila knew it, even then. This waiting was only a silent, endless sigh. In the dust-covered mirror of nostalgia, Her past flickers, bright as gleaming, Unreal in its stillness and beauty. The present? A colourless traveller That tells no stories, only passes by. So much time has passed As if a lifetime quietly devoured all she knew. Mithila, lost in the unknown crowd, now nameless. The rails no longer tune The rhythm faded with the fog. Time moved on, but never came back in harmony. The train still whistles But only for its own journey, Not for Mithila. There is no vacant seat for her now, no backwards glance. Mithila is now just a name, Drifting in the air of a grey and lonesome afternoon. No one remembers her, Only time leaves behind a fading trace. And the future? It is a nameless station of Waiting Not new, just another destination of solitude.