The Ballad Of Falling Leaves Poem by Sanjib Saha

Leaves fall these days.
Leaves fall, after all.
But before falling,
they don colorful hues,
singing farewell, in the chill.

Yet, I wonder,
was it necessary to fall now?
Wouldn't it have been better
to linger a bit longer?
Perhaps it would have.

The zest of life bursts forth,
who likes to let go of this moment?
Doesn't one feel like weeping,
even a little, or like the ocean?

Like the kadamba tree
by my window,
swaying leaves, beckoning me,
'Come, see, the sky is so radiant,
so vast, don't you want to soar? '

I cannot fly.

Birds arrive untimely,
chatting with green leaves,
with me, saying,
'This world is beautiful! '
But the leaves turn yellow,
then yellower.

Maple leaves lose color,
drifting away
in Vancouver or whirlwinds;
stars fill the sky, light remains,
moon rises, half-awake,
dew drops on grass blades,
reflections linger, a few people,
paths, and earth, scented with soil.

Unwillingly, leaves fall,
leaving marks, seasons change,
months, years, or millennia pass,
but life returns, repeatedly,
with illusions, dreams, and longing.

Am I shaken
by the sound of falling leaves?
Though the earth retains its image,
humans walk, converse,
weave colorful rhymes,
fields, birds, or children's cries.

— Sanjib Saha