The Final Dawn

The women of the house draped my mother in a sari,

Brimmed the parting of her hair;

A slight dot adorned her forehead–

All in a shade customary for a married woman.

The colour of life.

The hue that gushes in our veins

But was furtively coalescing into blobs in hers.

The blaring face of alarm.

When the sun came up that morning, mournful and fiery

Watching my father weep by the pyre,

My eyes were the colour

Of the flames that were slowly releasing her soul.