Leaves

When the breath was created,

It had the spirit of spring in its enfolded leaves,

Which never knew what withering was,

And thus they never faded,

Being a non-flower, bloomed more than a flower.

For it was humble, with modesty endowed within its nerves.

While the flower was engaged in eye-pleasing,

The leaves made sure the breath didn’t stop.

While the flowers decorated the huge brick walls-indicating ceremony,

The leaves stayed behind the curtain and never asked for credit.

But now the leaves are lesser in the count,

The land is barren with only the wooden uprights- small, others tall

And still others de-shaped by axe’s attacks.

My eyes on the view of dry leaves feel dry,

Because all the flowers with un-flower nature have caused boils and blisters in my heart.

The leaves have remained unnoticed,

The flowers are withering too because of too much notice. 

But I shall do justice to this,

For occasions, I shall gift a bouquet of leaves,

And make sure its count on wooden uprights become more than ever before.

Strange is this world in which-

Someone goes too much noticed for trivial capability,

And the life-givers are dead in the poets’ dead poetry.