I walk along the silken street,
Laced with trees, mighty tall.
Where purple petals kiss your feet,
Little feathers, light and small.
They drink the venomous heat away.
Their shade so cool and calm.
And to the song of life they sway,
A sweet and fragrant balm.
The morning dew on their bloom resides,
Shimmering at the crack of dawn.
Between their branches cuckoo hides,
Calling out to those who’re gone.
With their warmth and sprightly dance,
They set the street ablaze.
I find myself in a drunken trance,
Enchanted by their hue and grace
But now their lively bloom’s no more,
Their branches are nude and bare.
Gone is their fragrant charm and lure,
At a barren mass I stare.
The fiery eyes of Helios,
Cast a silent, sultry look.
The thirsty leaf of the undergrowth bows,
Like the curling edge of a worn-out book.
The morning dew has no place to lie,
On the dry, cracked ground it spills.
The cuckoos to their homeland fly,
With silence my heart fills.
Like soldiers stripped of their honour badge,
Like peacocks without their plume,
They stand without their foliage,
And wait for next year’s bloom.