THE FLAMES OF THE CHINAR LEAF

The fading light and the watery eyes,
the burning leaves, lifted,
The flames lick the air around,
just as the fire is sifted,
In the breezy gardens, by the banks,
burning in the setting sun.
Watched by the lone gatherers,
Each pile tended by one,

Gathering the smoldering embers,
to warm the autumn's chill,
promptly put in the portable pot,
taking care not to spill,

Off goes the Kashmiri,
through  the shadows of the sun,
In the warmth of his woolen gown,
he has, worries, none,

Warmth is such a simple thing,
and small, like the smoldering pot.
Tucked away under his gown,
A portable happiness, he has got.

It's something he can share,
with whomsoever he wishes,
Poor as he may seem,
his day is full of riches,

His leathery face bears a life well spent,
content in simplicity, without sorrow.
Just small moments of happiness,
Without the worry of tomorrow,

For, the next day,
he will recreate the warmth;
temporary, again,
Happiness is, no doubt, in links,
ready to smother pain,

All one needs to do is gather,
and complete the happiness chain.
The wise will understand this secret,
while the fools will struggle in vain.