Some death fetches like a brisk police
that collars innocents at drink
or lovers at their kiss.
But cowards run
to their own tomb
(a funeral of one
into her own cocoon).
As if they couldn’t wait,
they dig a solid hole
and sneak under a cross
to smother their own soul.
You, girl, are one of such.
I pleaded break
your dolls and idols, burn
a city for our sake,
cross husband, mother, God,
fool inconvenient laws,
love passion and rank honesty
and loathe peculiarly remorse.
But you, not answering,
resigned me with a sigh,
like an incurable
unwilling not to die.