A filthy heap of dried shrubs lie
lifelessly in a dusty pavement,
observing the changing world,
noticing every slight movement.

The dead leaves when stepped on ruthlessly,
make a low crumbling voice–
a feeble cry for desperate help,
as if it was a pleading voice.

Swift winds passing by
swept away carelessly their withering parts;
hither and thither,
they flew off,
along with their broken hearts.

The garden hoses eat dust now,
through which fresh water flowed then;
a wilting rose plant still stands by its side,
waiting hopefully for the rainy monsoon to return once again.