The Wanwun of the Chinar Leaves
The mountain is humming a low, ancient tune,
Beneath the pale thumb of a mid-autumn moon.
The Chinars are gathered in robes of deep red,
To sing for the summer, now silent and dead.
Crish-crush goes the pathway, a rhythmic refrain,
As the gold turns to copper in the soft, misty rain.
Each leaf is a cymbal, a parchment of flame,
Scribbled with secrets and a seasonal name.
They lean to each other with a sigh and a sway,
In the Wanwun of shadows at the end of the day.
A chorus of elders in a high, rustling choir,
Their voices are smoke and their garments are fire.
The wind is the drummer, the earth is the floor,
As the year walks away through a closing, grey door.
Skritch-scratch on the gravel, a brittle, dry beat,
The ghost of the harvest in the dust of the street.
The melody lingers in the frost of the air,
A song of the spirit, a folk-singer’s prayer.
Until the last ember of the orange is gone,
And the valley is waiting for the winter’s cold dawn.
Beneath the pale thumb of a mid-autumn moon.
The Chinars are gathered in robes of deep red,
To sing for the summer, now silent and dead.
Crish-crush goes the pathway, a rhythmic refrain,
As the gold turns to copper in the soft, misty rain.
Each leaf is a cymbal, a parchment of flame,
Scribbled with secrets and a seasonal name.
They lean to each other with a sigh and a sway,
In the Wanwun of shadows at the end of the day.
A chorus of elders in a high, rustling choir,
Their voices are smoke and their garments are fire.
The wind is the drummer, the earth is the floor,
As the year walks away through a closing, grey door.
Skritch-scratch on the gravel, a brittle, dry beat,
The ghost of the harvest in the dust of the street.
The melody lingers in the frost of the air,
A song of the spirit, a folk-singer’s prayer.
Until the last ember of the orange is gone,
And the valley is waiting for the winter’s cold dawn.
Harrison Cashmere is a poet and writer from the heart of Kashmir. His work explores the delicate intersection of human introspection and the fleeting beauty of the natural world. Deeply rooted in the atmosphere of the valley, his poetry seeks to ground philosophical ideas in the lived, sensory details of his homeland.