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by Mariam Tivana
The sun retreats from its fiery play,
A dimly lit speck in the clouded sky.
Swift gusts of cold wind blow-
the trees ablaze in autumnal glory,
let loose their flamed foliage.
Flying and swirling these leaves,
make a spectacle of a forest fire;
that Babur bewildered, cried out
to the old world Sycamores,
“Che Naar”, (Oh, what fire).
And there is one to retreat,
from the madding crowds
to a cottage in the woods.
To preserve this fleeting
heaven of colour in paint.
Or, let the spirit whisper
its musings on wisdom.
When the amber glow fades to violet,
an Indian robin sings from the rosewood.