The Girl with a suicide-note

Is there anything more unpredictable
than a girl carrying a suicide note?

On a page torn from her school note book,
wet and scrabbled. You see
alphabets dripping out,
like droplets of blood
From a fresh vein.

It may be in her closed fist,
Determined in that tight-lipped grip.
Or in her empty tiffin,
Which, she uses to collect stones.

She walked out of Broken April
Ready to avenge.
The bullet that she is,
or the glory of the blast
Wont make her a saint.

But when, finally
she opens her palm
Her life will flow out
Like a wronged river. A laugh,
like scattering beads, went astray.

Will the mud walls or the red pines tell her
Fairy tales on holy wars
when she comes back
As a lone butterfly?



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