She has her own story, like rains and the spring...

You know that, do you not?
That Autumn has her own story,
Like winter, spring, monsoon,
Memento mori*...

You know that,
Do you not?
Autumn once a story
On me wrote,
Like catching advertisement datelines...
Like catching young all older songs, eldest of times...
Like coining a catchy phrase
Standing infront of a tree draped golden like a mirthful haze...
Like taking in the aroma of a hookah bar,
Like riding pillion on a friend's bike, who came from far,
Like savouring chocolate tarts spread on creamy layer,
Like taking photo of a rickshaw puller sleeping  easy,
Like finding a flower growing blooming against a grey wall like a daisy,
Like finding art as month long fruit of blood and sweat,
Like catching the snappy, jazzy, pantalooned one suddenly as a poet,
Like blowing watery soapy bubbles filling the air,
Like getting a smell of a perfumed brown hair,

Autumn has her own story,
Like winter, spring, monsoon,
Memento mori...

(Note: this one is a collage of photographs taken by me...really!
*Memento mori=remember that you will die,)

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