Isam Hussain (8-12-1938 / Iraq)
Summer has run its course;
the year is coming to a close.
There is a chill in the air,
leaves are strewn everywhere.
Shrubs and trees catch cold,
shake and shiver in the wind.
Leaves of hues red and gold,
flutter and fall to the ground.
Should autumn’s beauty and majesty
be defaced and humbled in this way?
Alas, the seasons must move on;
time marches under its own banner.
Comments about this poem (Autumn by Isam Hussain )
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