The Colour of Death
The forest is clothed in green and brown,
Sunrays slant through the leafy mantle above,
As I skip along uncharted paths,
I can see a profusion of colours I love.
The forest path meanders aimlessly,
Between tall trees so randomly strewn,
As they look down on my wandering soul,
Colours envelope me in their mystic bloom.
Seasons pass, green turns to red,
A swansong of exploding colour before they die,
Turning brown when its leaves are dead,
Bare branches a black silhouette against the sky.
Then comes the frost, streaking black with white,
As crystal diadems cling to the boughs so bare,
Then the snow comes down bringing winter’s bite,
Painting the forest white in a ghostly glare.
Who can stop this cyclic dance,
Of this kaleidoscope that colours our mortal lives,
As seasons pass in unending rhythm,
Does death end and life survive?
No, this is verily the many colours of death,
As they come and go fleeting by,
For nature ordains that with certainty,
That everything that is born must surely die.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (The Colour of Death by Biswajit Basu )
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