The fall leaves dance weren’t celebrating life,
but utter despair, they whirled around in
the plaza like furious dervishes, faster and
faster till they ended up, exhausted, in a heap
in the corner, near the bin, for empty bottles.
A thunder rumble, warning of rain to come,
gutters will be rivers and leaves rafts, steering
around boulders down foamy waterfalls and
into the sewers, where the outcast rat lives and
witness our gaseous effluence.
Turning into mulch, mixed with human waste;
perfect nourishment free of chemicals, perhaps
a gardeners dream? A golden oak leaf survived,
the tumult, though, drifted to the Saragossa Sea
where it became a king amongst the seaweed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.