The dying leaf

A dry leaf rustles
as a youthful gust of breeze hustles,
Says the leaf
full of wisdom untainted with grief:

"Dear don't feel proud

of this young, stormy shroud,

You feel that you move the world,

Thy stormy vanity funnily curled,

Drunk with age and passion whirled,

Jesting with someone like me

blown away and crumpled.

I too was once luscious green,

An exuberant teen

with new-age glean,

A prince lost in his sheen,

Realities buried under the screen,

and pride prancing with haughty preen,--

Someone like me

nowhere to be seen.

Thought I was the entire forest

and me the dearest.

Meanwhile, chuckled time

at my childish chime,

Blew it away the flowery spring ray,

And here I lay,

having spent--or wasted?--my day,

The pride and boast tossed away,

All dusted, crumbling on the way,

With whom you now play,

But listen mate,

Everyone has a date

with the inevitable fate,

So as you celebrate

with youthful gusto great,

Walk chest out, spine straight,

Look at me crumpled

and trampled,

Remember you should always

as you sashay through the maze

that a mighty storm you are not

which will burn forever hot,

You too will trip

and slip,

And helplessly lie

to die,

And look at the sky

with a remorseful sigh

for having run

with fruitless fun,

Too vain and lost

without looking at the host,--

The ever-welcoming 'Now'

always fruitlessly waiting with a kind bow.