No, never have I seen a heart that grieves
as she, who weeps her barren amber leaves.
Her sorrow falls in ochre to my feet;
a mourn of silent yellows, so discreet.
I catch that drifting foliage ‘neath her stand
and hold her dying tears within my hand.
I clasp them tight, for how my sadness tries
to wipe away these wailings from her eyes;
but most I never reach; they blow away
and disappear in hues of brown decay.
I know the breeze shall never let her share
her grief with humans, as she withers bare.
No, never shall I know this heart that cries,
nor why this tree, before the winter, dies.
Conrad Kruger van den Bergh, 2015 (Copyright)