The Twigs are dry
And have fallen
The dead Leaves abound;
High up on a remote branch
I see one pale yellow
Majestic, standing-out amongst the lush green
Peeping at me
And trying to narrate its tale.
The traces of intricate greens and patchy browns
Irk the curious mind
To take a second look.
Perhaps its ready to wither
In a day or two
Hastened by the perch of the Sunrays
To join its brethren on the ground.
The morning Dew
Will bring little respite;
Perhaps none!
Its fate is sealed.
Too late to impart life…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem