Trees are the living-ones, they have
Their hearts and souls, the souls
Which reverberate love in the hearts
Of philocalists, the philocalist owls.
They see, they sing, the hear, they taste,
And they sense our senses in true sense,
They are makers; they make poets,
Obliqueness is their beauty, and fragrance.
Winds are their messengers, their lovers
Are flutterbies, bees and we, the poets,
Every leaf that falls down reverberates her
Sonnet, ballad of life, and odes.
The last leaf tells her story and
Acompanies her friends- in the stack,
They tell their ballads to wandering winds
And winds sing it to buds and bees.
The ballads must be set in autumn archive,
O, poet jagdish, the philosophy must be alive.