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!
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!
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