Leaves, full green (oh so bright)!
Fulfilling nature’s youth,
Patterns, beautiful and graceful,
Fleeting breach of Time’s truth.
The sighs of a painter’s arm,
Weaving fingers ache,
Sleepless lamps of an artisan,
Some sellers sweat of waste.
Verdurous, exquisite,
Now embellishes graceful drapes:
Lifeless, artificial,
Painted on some corner vase.
Meant to last,
Like memories,
Providing harrowing solace.
In gloomy nights of ardent memories,
I see these arching patterns.
I find the leaves of spring,
When the curtains are swept aside,
For the morning sun to gleam.
Leaning from a bridge, the raging river below,
I had learned to fall, but not to rise;
My mortal feet lead me to the crowded street,
I m not airborne, but there is solitude, where inebriant lies.
I, with my finite self, stand
Wounded – with dreams,
Wounded – with hope,
Wounded – by a glimpse.
I walk in a sunny avenue,
Shaded, comforted by the foliage,
I look up, smile at the red and blues,
Plethoric, soft and sweet.
It has rained, but no rainbows in the horizon,
The wait is over.
Tears have stained the fancies,
And there is nothing to recover.
The untouched flowers look at me and smile,
I will dream of them tonight.
