The Autumn breathed
a gentle stirring breeze
which came like a wanderer
across some distant meadows
to inveigle the remains
of the wilted flower
to sway with it,and
waft subtle perfumes.

But this muse of the poet
is silent as an ancient grave
a fallen soul who
danced on the edge of time
like the dew on the tip of leaf
and fell prey to the nature’s law.
To the dirt it will be laid now
And the breeze will lead the funeral

The poet is alone,crying
like the tempest’s eye and
silently witnesses the funeral
as the gentle breeze cools the tears
upon his face.
The soil embraces the offered one
but she knows this soul will rise again
for the poet’s pen lays not still long
before it sings once more…

© Copyright Mouris Bashir