Irawe (Dry Leaves)- A Poem by OMA4U

Irawe (Dry leaves)



Falling dry leaves do speak when found

Dancing in arctic wind journeying to the ground

When shrubs renounce her conjugative hand to death

She rustles giving up her murmuring breath



When the Mother Tree bears a handful of leaves at the apex,

Some murmurs in a condescending tone

to the rear leaves and those beneath whose struggling

fingers refuse to touch the sweet branches

or yet to savour the nutrient of the loamy humus

or whose voyage are yet to pull through the clustered maze

to the hill of the tree where rain sprinkles down upon them.



And when the whirlwind throws his jabs and knocks

and whistles time-up like a referee on a soccer pitch;

When the mother tree shakes from flank to flank,

the leaves fall obeying the herald of the Grim Reaper,

whirling, twirling, round and random, rustling, tumbling,

delicate, beautiful fresh green leaves fall; yellow fall; even the

gold leaves whose tongues have tasted the sweet and sour fall,

eternal bruises stamped on Mother Tree for the brave, good ones.

An uncanny tapestry of life - the wicked fingers of the Reaper

do not pluck by colours; when each leaf gets to its shore,

it falls flat into the swamp, succumbs to voice of the driver.



Those cold nights when the lofty symphonies of choir birds

serenade and crickets chirp panegyrics under glorious stars;

when the vigilant eyes of owl stay glued on the leaves

or when the wind itself caresses them. All are gone!

Now they sing in a pure silence, elegiac songs



While the fresh green unfulfilled leaves succumb

to the forceful heinous hands of the wind

and silently slice her sojourn and steep down to sleep below,

Irawe, the dry leaves, speak

the parables of every mortal life.



Irawe, the dry leaves, do speak when found

Dancing in arctic wind journeying to the ground

When shrubs renounce her conjugative hand to death

She rustles giving up her murmuring breath



When fateful fatality beckons on Irawe, she falls

And never sleeps atop the tree again

the secluded stem of the tree becomes her ancestral home

as they form yards of carpet beneath the mother tree

Scary serene breeze whistles at dawn and dusk

within the four walls of many acres allotted to them

It shall be said, "Sand for sand; ashes for ashes"

different epitaphs at the roof of their blessed homes.



copyright 2015. Warning: Do not copy!