Dead leaves fall
        In heaps                                       
        From the aged Tree of Life
        As greying hair do
        From an old man's head;
        Is it dying?
        Its brittle old branches
        Now Almost naked
        Fully exposed
        To the scorching sun
        And dust-laden whirlwinds;
        How long will it survive
        Violent storms?
        Day after day
        Scavengers sweep
        Carcasses of virtue,
        Yellow leaves,
        From the city's footpaths
        Hoping tomorrow
        Their number will decrease.
        The roads are full though
        Stacks of fallen leaves;
        And, we, the half-living
        Teeming millions
        Children of decay
        Born out of sin
        Walk over
        Emblems of glory
        Of a bygone age;
        Trample under foot
        Unmindful of the suffering
        Groans, creaks, squeaks
        Of the meek of the earth.
        No respite in sight
        No place to bury these dead
        Smouldering fires
        Without heat
        All over the city;
        Tall columns of smoke
        Engulf the streets.
        Burning odours
        Crackling sounds
        Dust storms;
        The flowers,
        Fruits in infancy,
        All dropping dead.
        Tears in the eyes
        Ah, at last,
        A few drops of rain.
        Hopes are raised
        The half dead tree might revive,
        Or else
        New life might sprout
        A new cycle might start;
        A new world from the fruits,
        The seeds
        Of the ancient tree
        Might come into being.