Arrogance of autumn winds,
mighty trees shake in fear,
on the hillside, wind's playground,
dead leaves are given
a new lease of life,
like a flock of tired birds,
they fly in a pathetic mirth induced,
downwards to the valley,
to their final, certain, death and decay.

The old horse, abandoned
looks on, with faint glow of hope,
lighting its eyes.The evening light,
fades slowly on its face,
Darkness reigns.

This hill station, alive only in summer,
looks desolate.Totally abandoned
tragic in its isolation after palmy days.
The visitors have gone down.
past all 33 hairpin bends,
to the plains, anticipating
a long  bitter winter.

The old race horse,
looks like the quintessence  of the gloom,
for a week stands there unmoving.
The valley slopes
in to a ground, near the market.
Cricket matches that electrified crowds,
stopped long before.
The racecourse is so still
like a house, death has taken over.
The crowd dissipated hurriedly
like tired migratory birds.

Once a cynosure, the race horse,
old, weak and abandoned
feels the onset of the worst winter
in his old, tired bones.
The chill spreads
from the hoofs upwards,

Buzzing of bees,
nowhere to be seen,
is incessant in its ears.
Its eyes don't see light anymore,
A winter with a dark message,
soon would arrive,
he waits, shivering, mute.