The colour of the rose says that she will-

become water in the eye burning from smoke
silently engulfing the stench of currying vegetables.

become the mesh of henna weaved over
the cuts and callouses of unkempt palms.

be the rouge, redolent of the ripples
of hush hushed curses breaking against pallid cheeks.

turn into the mercurial gash on the forehead-
the witness of allegiance.
Until the time she becomes the poison apple
quietly lodged somewhere in the throat.

fall as rain, covering horrified wails,
washing away the lone footprints left on quicksand,
some day when you find her alone on the streets at night,

Turn into the blood on lips
twisted in a grin from grinding metal against teeth.

Become an exhibition piece-
the brushstrokes painted within peeling, papery skins.

Dry up one day, and return as the garment
braided on the daughter’s corpse.