The sun has set; the leaves long gone;
Winter touches on my panes
But in the deathly still, a song.
A cricket in some arbor cricks,
All alone, in sporadic tics.
How melancholic is the thought
That the weight of a whole summer lost
Shifts on the legs of a pious soul.
The cosmic pressure that urges its rhythm
In cadence fast, to sing its all
Of budding blooms and bird nest eaves
Revives from Fall, en masse, withered leaves,
Ashen grass and balding trees
To partake of this sweet symphony.
And in this religious melody,
The insect too is wise to note
Through bohemian eyes, the tune is rote.
As it plays its fleeting whisper,
I shall pen its will on paper
So all may enjoy and listen
Of its summer tales, while snowflakes glisten.
For I too, must sing this song,
Before the day is spent and gone;
Before all is finished and begun
Before my words become undone.
NOTE: Ansel Oommen’s name was misspelled in the printed version of The Music Issue. The Blueprint Team would like to apologize for this mistake.