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When the sun, after a shower brushes aside mountain mist,

That wand of fiery gold tints the forest aflame.

Why be stirred by the season of mists?

Why be stirred by the autumn’s golden glint?

Why be stirred by autumn’s melodies?

No greens to please the eye, because all turns gold

That philamot on pavement can please your eyes,

Until sleety rains sweep it away into a rotting mass,

And bury it, under icy snow, with the broken boughs.

Under the Fall’s accretions it must quietly lie,

Fossilised to awaken in another bleak dystopian generation,

Which must save itself. So must beauty pass. A carnival

Is my autumnal dream just until it lasts!

Because my mind warningly quips- ” All that glitters….”

The bard’s ominous words reply-

Autumn’s a mere harbinger to wintertide,

A prelude to the winters solstice’s least light,

When the aurora must in northern skies ride high.

So stack your cinnamon pies, tarts and harvest,

And into your larder, tuck cider barrels deep.

Let fleet-footed Time’s carnivalesque tiptoe away.

Delight not at Midas’ freezing touch: 

All that glitters must surely go away!


Mumtaz Khorakiwala 



Pic courtesy:Makayla Sophia

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