The Withering Leaf

Fluttering, trembling with fear or terror and anxious inside the soul. The wind passed by, accompanied by sounds of thunder. Shriveling with the beats of the rain. I am writing in this bitter-sweet pain. I have grown old with all these tormented days and nights. I have lost myself of all the glory that I had once upon a time. I am not even the image of reminiscence of that early spring morn.

I am withering, holding on to dear life. Whirling unspoken words and unseen seasons.

This seems like it. The time we all wait for – death. Now who will I trickle down the early morning dew. I remember Ferhat and Şirin sneaking out from their houses after the twilight illuminated this dark ambiance. But now invisible winds took them away, far away. And I wait here for my wind.

I am waiting to let go of this pain and from this existence.

It seems only yesterday when the morning dew that I held fell from my lap. With the pull of the gravity trickling down on Şirin’s forehead to her lips. Only for Ferhat to dissolve his lips with hers. Now separation has broken them away in this life. But they are one I believe. Lovers are all along with each other. Sometimes when the sky is mourning the absence of the Moon. Ferhat and Şirin dance in the melancholic tones. I whirl like a dervish feeling possessed with their aura that surrounding me. The Stars play symphony, like a soundtrack with no conductor. Here love is the conductor.

And this poor self, is rotting with time. Loneliness. Waiting for even a bud to fill me with hope. But it’s too late now only the last moments to be what I am. Of me presents a story of a solitary lover who fell in love with the want of being in love.

Am I happy that I am going to be shadow, that I would cease to exist. Existence, a journey of what we were, what we are, and what we become. In the end existence is ceased with one breath. Our souls are sucked from our bodies. And we become nothing.

Now my time has come.

The storm has woken me up from these sorrows of the hollow heart. Wind has started to shake me off the grips to live. Ripping me apart from Being.

Ripped, snatched and gripped into the swaying of this storm. I feel an uneasy calm like some comfort. Like Freedom. Even the though my body is being shredded away. I feel at ease. I have a smile on the face. Like the smile on the face of a martyr. Was this the promised relief from enduring all the pain?

I am drowning. I am falling.

My body is at rest finally. There is just a speck of me now. I am almost nothing. I have no sorrows, no hopes, no dreams and no qualms. There is only me at rest with my own broken self. As I lay in the graveyard of the Autumn.

I am writing to you who I never see. You know of my tormented existence, I ask you to with-hold my secrets, my stories. And a last deed that I want to die with. To make me a source of warmth to those who suffer from this cold. This cold has crushed me in many winters and many more autumns. Let them heave a relief for a moment.

And I wish to ask you a question, “What is left of us, with all the suffering that we endure before we die eventually?”

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3 thoughts on “The Withering Leaf

  1. Life that crawled, life that slunk and crept and never closed its eyes. Life that burrowed and scurried, and life so still it was indistinguishable from the ivy stems on which it lay. Birth, life, and death—each took place on the hidden side of a leaf….. All i can say is I am dazed.

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