There is no one, really, to mourn her death. Her eyes, they say, were like a wraith’s Heavy and sombre, unlike any animal Something born in blazing fire! They say, they know, when a tiger is a tiger. They call themselves all-rational. That the embodiment of a man-eater Is an abomination – tag her a murderer! Unable to kill or secure her meal, Something that should not exist in real. To what end is her life, what was her story? A lifetime spent reckoning deaths – nay, murders Cast out not by her own kin but human furore Erased from existence by unsympathetic orders! They say, they know, when a tiger is a tiger. There is no one, really, to mourn her death Yet she lives on under everyone’s breath Under what name – scornful or profane In what story – irrational, of an old witch’s bane Or tragic, a mother who died without a name.