Through the mazy sheets of mist,
Intrude the rays of morning sun
And cause every fragment of frost,
To shimmer like the beads of diamond.
A roofless bulbul sitting on the wallnut tree,
Hums into the imperceptible opacity of fog,
In a voice mellifluously hurting,
Another verse of heartfelt salutations.
Why does the lopsided pen of a poet,
Drenched in the ink of myopia,
Always talk about falling leaves and decrepit grass?
Why is Autumn a metaphor for death?
Doesn’t it borrow, the hues and colours,
From maimed limbs and hollowed torsos?
Doesn’t it paint laboriously, from dusk to dawn,
With heart-ripping touches of elegance?