A pale dry ailing leaf,
Shorn of a branch of the tree,
Is holding on to gusty winds,
In aimless wandering spree.
Listening to the beat of its sinking pulse,
Struggling through narrowed veins,
These wrinkled drying lifelines,
Once host to the gushing blood.
And instinctively, it wonders:
O! How would I love to suckle,
From veins of the lively wind,
Some drops of fresh blood
To reclaim youthful vigour.
Life could change again for me,
To a youthful dance with glee:
A fresh journey of eternal bliss,
Through smells and sounds of spring.
But the taunting autumn wind, knew best,
The fate of dry old leaves:
Burial beneath a mound of dirt,