I stroll about the terrace …

I stroll about the terrace;

And sounds of my land immerse into my existence:

The soft drip of the lonesome trickle of dew,

As it embraces the thirsty earth;

The soulful chirrup of the swallow,

As it meditates on the benevolent neem;

The cadenced buzz of the honey bee,

As it prowls about for the nectar;

The gurgled hoot of the sleepy owl,

As it finally slips into slumber;

The whooshing flow of the morning breeze,

As it invigorates the mortals far and wide:

But then ruthlessly, in a flurry of time

 The bliss of spring is cut off,

And … autumn on its throne of gold and red,

Arrives to proclaim its crown: the land that had bloomed

With the scintilla of flora and the jade of prairie,

Now lays barren of its vibrancy,

And squandered of its colors … and so it happens, that

Blood tinkles down the leaves galore;

The shades of neem no more benign, snigger in deceit;

The bee drones as it strikes to raze the mountain-homes;

The owl cowers in fear, alert and tense;

The wind lashes in fury, blood and flesh its feed:

 

Helpless and vulnerable, unable to do anything,

I still stroll about the terrace, contemplating

Does my land have a future?