Kasheer, the cradle of
My happiest days which
Alas! I cannot summon.
Not even a trace,
Not even a figment
Can I recall.
A leaf of the springtime,
Fresh and tender to touch,
So I was told,
Fell off its branch,
Well before its time.
Fell into the autumnal drain
And swam with the current
Towards the sewer of this world.
The season was different
And the wind, ruthless,
So I was told,
which took all away,
All that its might could.
It shunted the leaf, still unripe.
Braced for the drudgery, but
not the loss of its hue,
It refused to shed its green, the
Emerald of a crown.
Refused to dry into pathetic despair.
Time passed,
The hue remained but
The delicate scent was lost.
Bereft, its longing grew.
The twig it belonged to
Had withheld its fragrance.
Memories deceive this leaf.
But resounding facts
Unleash the history that
Rendered the leaf its texture.
Beneath the surface,
The bruise is fresh
But when concealed,
Left unseen in worldly mesh.
A perception indebted with
Blood laden facts,
Gave way to a melodious rustle,
The blowing wind bound to
indelible pacts.
Separated by time and distance,
It pledged to return one day,
Flutter back to that
Spring of the Valley where
Once dwelled the Heaven.
It vowed to bloom someday
from its own ashes of dismay,
as a phoenix shimmering its light
as bright as gay,
to act upon the vengeance
and make them cower and pray.
At last, it broke the shackles and tangles
of the woeful plight,
The heaven showered the spring
and nature swore to sing,
the beauty that was lost has come back
as a blissful omen to dispel the prodigal past.
