by Iqra Nazir
“Arrival, Arrival”,
whistled the breeze.
“Of your treasured spell-
That comes to appease.
Autumn, it is
and you will savour.
And you will cherish
this cherished favour”.
“Thrawt, Thrawt”,
shrieked the girl.
“Autumn it is
and it will hurl.
It will hurl
the leaves from the trees,
the way ‘they’ come
and chop my tresses”.
“It is Autumn”,
reverted the breeze.
“The only span that
brings you ease.
Autumn, it is
to which you shared,
the finest of melodies
and to which you teared”.
“It is mere Autumn”,
sighed the girl.
“It’s sheen bewitches me not,
Nor is now to me a pearl.
It used to be
the cherished spell,
to which I not just poured
but always spend well.
This autumn, dear breeze
made it chaotic,
took my dignity,
and declared me psychotic.
This autumn turned ugly,
Should not stop my love for the spell.
Alas! My native land,
The one bereft of all the spells…”
(Iqra Nazir is student of Kashmir University and pursues MSC IT)
