Cleansing

The dried yellowed leaf,
Disowned by the rigid tree,
Still dream of the green,
Of the roots and seed.
Brown was all around,
Or to put it right it was black,
But the leaf still saw green,
Inside out all dreamy green.
It seemed to be the mask,
Of memories covering the black,
Or the laughter and innocence,
Of the natural bond with the tree.
Can Green really be the mask?
Cover up the deep dark black,
The green was never there,
Black was real colour.
The broken leaf was crying,
With this realisation,
Even the last of the moisture,
Got evaporated through tears.
The clouds were thundering,

A storm was up there in the sky,
Swinging the leaf across time,
From the tiny leaflet to the broken one.
Perhaps it was leaf's,
Evaporated tears that,
Started falling down,
Like the waterfall.
Cleansing the old dirt,
On the leaf renewed it,
Lifting it up on the wind,
Guiding it to a new life.
Suddenly a lightning struck,
And fell on the tree,
Tearing it apart,
And burning it alive.
The leaf saw the pyre,
Of the tree that had shrugged,
Torn and discarded it,
Was turning into ashes.