Written on the dry leaves are
Stories many, epics, mere
Love songs, prayers holy,
Secret chants, riddles of the skies.
Written with a needle sharp
Striking no pain on the leaves
But the author’s heart bleeds
Will these be food for termites?
Or will research and medical studies
Go on my pamphlets well read
Will they crumble under history heavy
And the poems i wrote float in drains.