She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not Poem by Wangchat konyak

Then came another day
To sit by the bushes
And wager my luck
At the mercy of the last leaf —
A ritual perhaps every timid lover
In their early naive stages of love,
Engaged in the act of
Plucking leaves one by one,
Uttering, "She loves me,
She loves me not."

When I was a boy,
I used to trust my fate
To this ancient, dubious ritual,
Leaving my destiny
At the whim of the final leaf.

I remember,
It was a fine sunset hour.
I sat down under the tree,
A branch of leaves in hand,
Betting my love on the last leaf.
Plucking them off one by one,
Reciting, "She loves me,
She loves me not."

I sat there smiling,
Amused by my own silliness,
Until the last leaf remained,
And my final words were,
"She loves me not."

Undeterred, I grabbed another branch,
Thinking, "These three leaves will decide my fate
Or my love."
I plucked them off one by one.
Alas, when the last leaf remained,
The line was,
"She loves me."

Delighted, as if fate itself had spoken,
I felt the weight of my doubts lift.
I rose and rode home with a triumphant smile,
A young timid boy in love,
At least for now.