As the winds start to blow
A hundred miles to go—
She seeks one last hug
And looks back to see once more
The love that she received
When a leaf shower she conceived,
A girl painted her on a canvas
She'll be remembered for an eternity.
The writer who wrote a song,
On the graceful dance of wind
She flushed his blood to his face,
And the writer took her in his embrace.
Her orange hues were scattered,
On rooftops and in taverns
Some lead to rustic jungles,
Some enamored secret gardens.
Amidst a crisp amber garden,
A mother crooned to her infant
The Little one asleep in the cradle,
Swayed to and fro in the lawn.
In the rustling sound of leaves,
A composer composed his music,
He played the verses in a song
And the wind sang along.
She was beautiful and wise;
She blew upon deserts and upon rhines,
She had seen mountains, she saw hives
She blew upon oceans and many lives.
She touched them all,
And kissed two lovers on their cheek;
A sculptor sculpt a mural
On the timeless beauty of her leaves.
As Winter calls out, "I'm on my way!
Merry and bliss I shall bring,
As a gift for taking away
Your lovely Autumn days"
She whispers her last words,
"I'll come back with a new dream.
Until then, preserve this pure thing, ...(❤️)
And enjoy the rain...
For if I die, then I live
So we shall meet again! "🍂
- Syeda Fathima
A summer poem in the remembrance of Autumn.
