Each leaf that falls,
on which I write
is a story in itself;
from the way it stands
on the ground
wanders around
you could tell,
if it’s heavy with words
or simply light and sound,
if it has failed
going to heaven
through hell.

Each leaf that falls
on which I write
has a story to tell;
it’s falling on the stage
like a tired footfall
sitting underneath a tree
a passerby who
in between taking rest
held the fleeting leaf
with the hands
covering the face
with kindness or rage
so one could feel
the leaf
its unsung agony;
but you overlook it all
over it you write your own
stories, with an impending tone
it absorbs your lines,
on the bed
brown and unread.

© supratik 2023
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