When the autumn earth grows
shy,
prostate, begging the tree leaves for cover
When the wind lets out a sensuous sigh
throttled hopes of seeing its naked lover.
Oh look, look at the leaves
turn crimson
at oh-so-humble Earth's shame-
the breeze whispers, quite on the run
to its gentle lover, its modest dame.
The poet sits by the tree, by
the lake
pondering; and yet, the leaves fall
gently, nimble elegance in every flake,
oblivious of it all.
He thinks of his lover, the
sweet nothings
whispered between 'em not so long ago,
and feels why the wind so mournfully sings
a dirge of love, lamentations of sorrow.
Frustrated in love, the wind
takes on
a gustier pace, a biting chill.
The poet smirks, life's not yet gone,
there's another spring to kill.
~Shombuddho~
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