The falling leaves, 

Never cognizant 

Of their descent,

The patient wind 

Poised to drive, conjuring

Trepidation, whispering

To her sans words,

Streaming with his tune,

The notes heard by her,

Unobserved to be heeded

By the onlookers.

The tune made her nigh

Her eines, the tacit 

Sonorous notes shuffled,

To be choreographed 

By nature, eloquent 

To kiss the earth,

She weathered 

To be the feuillemorte,

She marbled her descent

With a smile, amalgamated 

With the soil, her soul

Still hums the tune.

By Orbindu Ganga

From: India

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