At the END OF THIS AUTUMN, I am standing Under a barren tree, bleak and exposed TO weather with shedding leaves, There rests a house away from the barn, Decorated with vivid colours of rainbow And maintained by careful hearts Now lay without its cheerful dwellers Who are now hopefully incarnated in another form?
At the END OF THIS AUTUMN, I see this curious and cute Cur smelling innocently the gun which lay on the sand After the inhuman act taking the lives of the cheerful Dwellers and cur’s owners, few moments ago there was A grand preparation for the Durga Pujas to come, but in A matter of minutes everything was over when the Harsh sound of the firing gun was heard twice and down Laid the couples on the ground, their blood mixed with Indian Dirt.
The wind swept trees stand tall like Hercules with all his strength, for here in this place lies the dead and dying of mankind. Here in this turmoil we also see God. Within the desert the winds are stirring again
Those leaves weren’t few that shed away But down alive, not much could stay Few were tramped, few had dried It isn’t, that they never tried Few were blown, few were crushed At nights they lived, as roads were hushed
Autumn is one of the four seasons of all Here, the leaves of the trees do fall. Night spreads it’s darkness prematurely And cold ascends with it cavalierly. Nothing’s different in the autumn of life Where the wrinkled cheeks and