The fall season still comes, but
Without the glory and splendor
As hitherto dwelled in yesteryears
A lackluster vegetation without shade
Of all so familiar hues and candour…
The spring tide still comes, but
Flora lacks usual plentiful affluence
Scales and buds lack their prime youth
Flowers too neither blossom nor display
So familiar rainbow variegation anymore…
Have the seasons suffered impasse, or
My senses have started betraying me?
I wonder if it’s a nemesis so ordained -
As sequel of her inevitable loss in life
Or, I have been just petrified with time.