The Beauty of Autumn

Autumn’s beauty, its fading grace,

So fitting for the eyes of autumn,

I burned the withered branches,

And pressed saffron leaves against my heart.

Then I wrote my very last poem

And brought it to an end.

The fires of memory burned within my chest,

The poem burned, my heart burned too,

Until the flame reached my throat.

My fingers—oh, my fingers—

Were burning, crackling, blazing still.

And the verses I wrote at the very end

Turned rebellious and mocked me.

A flower bud that refused to fall,

And the echo of withered branches

Seemed to whisper back at me.

Autumn’s beauty, its leaves of gold…

Anvarova Nilufar, a student of the 10D grade of the Erkin Vohidov creativity school of Margelan city, Fergana region, Uzbekistan.