The last autumn

I died the first time,
when a wheel splashed a muddy spray
on both of us.

My final end came in an autumn,
while Dussera flavour was fresh in mind.
You stabbed me by an

early morning sms.
You took out my core, washed it with tap water,
applied a coat of fine clay.

I was then sun-dried, ornamented
with bee-wax stripes, roasted in a furnace
using scrap metal.

I'm a dhokra heart on your shelf.

[ Dhokra is an ancient art form in India. Dussera, a festival in Autumn.]