In a world of withered flowers, cracked cheeks, and homeless creatures, the silence is no longer peaceful—it is the sound of something beautiful ending
By Umair Malik
The trees stand bare, their branches stripped of life, blistered by years of existence shaped by the demands of people. Their once-vibrant leaves are now distant memories, and with each passing day, they grow weaker, closer to the end. Birds, once free and full of purpose, now drift through the air—homeless and heedless, uncertain of where they belong. The question lingers in the stillness: where will they go? Is there any place left for them?
The red, dry leaves that blanket the ground are no longer a symbol of the season’s beauty.
Once they were full of colour, full of life; now they are crushed underfoot, their fragile existence hanging by a thread. Yet there is no outcry, no urgency. People used to bury their frustrations, their struggles, and their tantrums beneath these very leaves, seeking solace in their quiet surrender. But now, the silence is deafening—no one speaks, no one acknowledges the loss.
The sun teases us with its presence, playing hide and seek behind clouds that grow darker by the moment, heavy with the promise of rain. Yet, the rain comes too late—far too late.
The flowers that once bloomed in our hearts have already withered, their petals long gone, leaving only the emptiness of a forgotten beauty. The skies may weep, but the flowers within us have already died, and no storm can bring them back.
The winds grow colder, biting through the air. Children’s lips crack from the chill, their cheeks, once flushed with the warmth of life and joy, now rough and weathered, as if time has stolen their softness. Who will care for these cracks, these signs of neglect? Who will tend to the frailty that time has imposed upon them?
A butterfly flutters through my lawn, its delicate wings struggling to stay aloft in the face of an encroaching cold. It may be searching for a final sip of nectar, a last chance at the sweetness of life before the inevitable frost. But the flowers have already fallen, one by one, leaving only empty stems in their wake. The petals that once adorned the blooms now serve as ornaments for palanquins, a final tribute to a beauty that has passed. And the butterflies? No one seems to notice, no one seems to care anymore.
People speak of winter with growing desperation, as though the coming cold will offer some kind of release. But what of those warm summer nights when we would sit beneath the stars and speak to the moon, sharing our hopes and dreams as if time would stand still? How quickly we forget the seasons that have come and gone, and how even quicker we forget the friends who once shared them with us.
A lone nomad wanders through the labyrinth of Chinars, lost in its twisting paths, as if seeking something that may never be found. Perhaps a final leaf will find him, drifting down from the trees like a last offering of autumn. Or perhaps he will rest upon a bed of red velvet Chinar leaves, the ground soft and comforting beneath him. But perhaps, in the end, he will remain here forever, lost in the hues of autumn, a part of the season’s fading beauty, unable to escape its inevitable passage.
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