Autumn Wind

The vast spans of golden fields, no longer they command;

an effect on the dry autumn wind grown yellow, old and bored,
of waving the mustard plants;

a game that has ceased to be a deliberate act;
of plays, of dance.

Benign, on him the leaves no longer weigh a charm,
of a little boy's curious fingers green,
but have become trivial chores to be juggled satisfaction sans;
as time flows by un-wantingly, too slow and nonchalant.

He had fallen in love once, with some tassels beautiful,
in summer hot yet he had found cool in those shadows solidified;
had his breath taken away by something he couldn't just pluck, play and leave.
Instead they had flown yet been rooted, moved yet stayed, teased yet remained chaste;
until some god strange had willed them masked, too scared to share;
and replaced them with a yard of cloth which on the first chance,
had in the autumn wind's own wake slapped away his trance.

Tired, as he goes on, his mind retreats back
to temple bells and old plans;
of youth, of defiance, which couldn't become more,
than weak attempts of collective strength to make the bell ring,
untimely, unduly, unholy noisily yet vainly;
for long after, the bell still hangs, still prayed under for fulfillment of more plans.

And now lost, he wanders to  find a purpose, 
brought down to pathetic acts;
of snatching away the balloons from little children’s hands,
by him he did them a favor, to show life's cruel reality;
for his own has grown mellow, cold and sored,
sans clans, sans love, sans stance.