Chitralekha Sreejai – The tree who stole my leaves

IMG_4736Chitralekha Sreejai is an aspiring writer with a deep passion in eastern and western literature, art and music. She published her first book of poems titled ‘The Divine Hand In The Dark ‘ with India books, Kerala, India. Her writings have appeared in some of the widely popular Indian magazines like Woman’s Era and Alive (Delhi press magazines), The Khaleej Times online (UAE), Eastlit and Writer’s Ezine. Her poem in Writer’s Ezine was chosen for their ‘Exceptional poem award’. She currently resides in Letterkenny, Ireland with her family. She earned her PhD in Sanskrit from India.


The tree who stole my leaves

O solitary tree, who stole my leaves
And stuck them in barren twigs,
In whose sweet breath and mighty music,
Entangled, I read my vacant dreams;
In long silent solitudes, hour after hour,
In whom my seasons grew in deep delight!
O solitary tree!
Now that these leaves have ripened,
Let them fall!
With each yellow leaf that fall,
Shall fall, love and all the tender bonds.
Stop mourning, O melancholy tree,
My woes are far worse than these,
Tonight, let the wild wind blow,
Our wanton leaves shall float in abandon,
The leaves late this night,
Shall sing in the deepest anguish,
Tales of war, tales of love,
The swallows shall soar tomorrow in silent wings,
The crows shall circle in deep bereavement,
Through the sound amidst the stillness,
Shall seep a mourning song,
Empty, empty in the bleat of the wind.
Through the raptures and sensitivities of the mind,
And the hidden callousness of a thousand lives,
The hour that travelled this far,
Shall die tonight in the heart of the woods.
Lower than figures, lower than shadows,
As the heart bends to the deadly pain,
We shall pass silent, into that solitary night
That grew each day by the window pane.
Oft like a child when the heart raved to cry,
Crumbling in the cryptic winds of the wild,
Little fairies and lovers grew in the grey;
But now they have gone, blown with the wind;
Now, the heart bleeds in a sombre vein,
The precious blood sheds, in vain,
Mist, mist, it grows larger than the green!

 

 

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