Faruk Ahmed Roni Poet Free verse

Notes About The Poem

The Veil of Mithila is a deeply evocative poem that reimagines the veil not as a symbol of concealment, purity, or oppression, but as a living fabric of memory, suffering, and human resilience. Using Mithila as a metaphor for collective womanhood, cultural inheritance, and marginalised voices, the poem weaves together images of war, displacement, hunger, and generational labour. The veil becomes a lens through which the world’s forgotten struggles are witnessed with compassion rather than judgement. Instead of hiding the wearer, it illuminates her strength, wisdom, and capacity to hold unspoken truths. The poem urges readers to confront the realities we avoid, suggesting that true revelation lies not in spectacle, but in quiet recognition of shared human pain and endurance.

The Veil of Mithila

The veil of Mithila
is not spun from silk,
it is wrapped in the hush
of cannon-swept ash,
tinged with the hush-grey hue
of a weary sky,
woven with the gossamer
of time’s forgetting.
It rests upon her face,
yet never dims the light in her gaze.
Through its quiet folds, she sees
a world scorched and stumbling,
bruised by powers
that burn without end.
Mithila crosses the fields
in the heat of the fire.
The blood-soaked grass of the dawn
clings to her feet,
amazement in her eyes.
Her veil, stitched
with the silent labour of centuries,
was never meant to hide her beauty,
nor to shelter glances
seeking purity.
It is a mirror,
softly holding the weight
of human longing and loss.
And so she sees, gently but clearly,
the ache in empty hands,
the quiet division
of a shared crust of bread.
Within the veil,
her eyes, bright as a restless flame,
do not seek kings
or battles crowned in gold.
They rest upon ruins
cradled by labour,
upon mothers moving with memory
in empty arms,
chasing promises
softened by distance.
This veil flows like a stream
of salted rain.
It touches the warm dust
beneath displaced feet,
breathes with the lungs
of the working poor,
and carries stories once folded
in the careful creases
of a grandmother’s hands.
Beneath it,
Mithila is no seeker of omens.
She watches with quiet knowing
a world where prayers often rise
not from reverence, but need.
She counts children
whose bellies hold only wind,
not bread.
Her veil does not hide her,
it shields her strength,
a gentle filter
through which truth still shines.
She gathers what we leave unspoken,
the names we dare not give
to sorrow.
And when she lifts the veil,
the world does not recoil.
It remembers, not in fear,
but in recognition.
For what she reveals
is not distant,
it is what we have hidden,
beneath the silence
of our own tongues.

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