Golden leaves rustling in the breeze,

Somber sky charged with clouds,

Yet my heart so opaque, tied to the end,

Trying to slow down the voices, vague and loud.

Ah, the hazel color stuck in your iris,

Turning golden, glancing through the sky.

Could I ever stare at them, comfortably in silence?

Or could scream at my heart to stop pounding, if it might.

There’s smell of fall in the air,

Camellias creating a cushion of colors on the ground.

You pick one and put it in my hair,

Ruffling them under the golden sky.

I fear the raspy winter coming our way,

Will turn the goldens to dead whites

Yet my heart has promised to stay warm,

Will narrate anecdotes of us,

To accompany me through the nights.

                                                                               ~ Trisha Banerjee

                                                                                  Jamshedpur, India