T’was the tears from 
morning dew
shed for Autumn’s fate,
gathered on a weary leaf
loosened under season’s weight.
And it is here my story originates.
That leaf, whose trip
began at the tip
of a dry and barren branch
afloat gusty winds,
and boreal rains
down to my patio,
where again,
it smiles
with nostalgic recognition.
That leaf I lifted
whose tears I dried,
Then off to my room
we both did fly
and there with love
and a quiet brush
against my cheek
a kiss, a touch.
Concerned for its fragility
that it may crumble
in my hands,
with caress I placed it lovingly
between the pages of Diwan e Ghalib,
as if his words were threads of silk
tenderly wrapped around the leaf.
This one Spring day
in Autumn went,
as the book was closed
and I reflected when
I found this leaf,
or it found me
deeply drawn
to its intricacy.
Thereafter,
many seasons passed
over trails it tread
through the hearts terrain
A thousand climates adorned this expanse,
not one had shown the same.
A deluge of complaints
shattered by spells of love,
rejuvenating rays of sunshine
torrent nights of intimacy,
flowing in warm red wine.
Then by day embracing
our besotted awareness,
the maundering hours of braided madness,
the draught of thirsting
loneliness…
All this gone, now
returns the fall.
That one last leaf
I’d kept my own,
Which I imagined
I’d always known,
wasn’t mine, after all.
And so,
in an effort to appease,
I settled my debts
with destiny,
and handed it back
to the waiting breeze.
