The Cycle

The breezy cold air touches the skin, When walk in the quite streets barren, The still homes filled with agitated human, Scared of coming out to have their passion, To be rejuvenated with the natural notion, The dried leaves play with the emerging sun, Acquiring the color of yellow on the run, Brown and black after a few days of fun, The breeze that pierce the hair of crown, Change into the pressurized storm, Chase all those dead leaves to the rim, The path is cleared one more time, The new leaves wait for their turn to plunge, many a human not knowing of the pinch, contented to teach what they have achieved, everyone has their own fair share of preaching.