The Language of Falling Leaves

They do not speak in syllables or sound,

Yet in their fall, a truth is found.

The leaves, once green and full of song,

Now drift in silence, all autumn long.

Each one tells a story as it descends—

Of summer’s warmth, of fleeting friends.

Of breezes once that made them sway,

And skies that stretched in endless gray.

In golden hues and crimson light,

They whisper softly, out of sight.

Their flutter is a final kiss,

A farewell wrapped in quiet bliss.

They teach us how to let things go—

To trust the earth, the breeze, the flow.

To fall with grace, not fear or cry,

To know that even loss can fly.

They do not cling or fight the breeze,

But ride the wind with gentle ease.

No bitterness within their veins,

No cries, no blame, no rusted chains.

They turn to soil and feed the root,

Their final act a gift, a fruit.

So life begins again, unseen,

Beneath the frost, beneath the green.

And as I walk through autumn's page,

I hear their whispers, calm and sage.

They tell me all I need to know—

That love remains, though seasons go.

Their language is of trust and peace,

Of knowing when to hold, release.

Of beauty not in staying still,

But flowing with the unseen will.

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Thank you for reading...

Regards: Fazal Hadi