In the quiet of dawn,
Shadows yawn,
As the tome turns over a page,

Here no leaf is torn,
none too worn,
For every side is an age,

Each whisper of wind,
neatly tinned,
nothing assigned backstage.

Each life is drawn,
be he king or pawn,
politician, fool or sage,

Heartbeats recorded,
the clean and the sordid,
As the ink bleeds through veins on the page.

Saw a vase on the table
sweet williams and chyrsanths,
perfect, like from a fable,
ready for French romance.

the greens and reds contrasted
in lively voice of colour
as if they knew their planting
was theirs to scream and holla

Now they're tired and wither,
their heads droop down in pain,
they know not whither nor whether
their strength they will regain

there is a language above the letters
composed of more than words
it knows not grammar or similar fetters
and flies on wings of birds

soul sings,
soars cerulean skies
searching, seeking,
attaching ode of awe
to Everlasting One.

what is a language?
human brain feeling its way
constricted by mere words

In the greying steel and glass,
hands, dry and blistered, labour,
a merciless smoke turns days to dusk,
as a worker grunts to neighbour

through din and grime, thin bodies mined,
choking in tireless toil,
All dreams quenched, all brains confined
To clunk of drums and oil.

Beyond lies world where riches rule,
Where lies are painted bright,
Marble steps to cerulean pool,
Break the rhythm of light.

Each step another shoulder bowed,
Another voice is numbed,
Another to submission cowed,
As feelings rank, unplumbed.

And dreams are forced to wilt and die,
In factory's metallic guise,
Beneath unseeing, endless sky,
In sweat of muted cries.

Lady Autumn, in russet hues,
'Neath urban shawl, in shadows fold,
Her softest breath, a poet's muse,
Silk whispers, saffron gold.

Skin aglow, with burnt flushed cheeks,
She fulminates 'gainst dying sun,
In skies that smoulder in crimson streaks,
Her voice, the wind's, lamenting hum,

To every leaf a eulogy,
Tribute to its murmured secret,
Once a part of Symphony,
Now tumbles to a tyre's rut.

Soft the pavements tread her cloak,
In alleyways, in quietude,
Drapes from willow and chestnut oaks,
Now silhouette of awkward ****,

In amber light, in frozen grasp,
As frost begins its creep,
As Autumn yields to Winter's clasp,
As world succumbs to sleep.