By JH Sayyar
Ah! I look a scarecrow in the autumn’s chill,
With ragged coat and hair like wind-blown hay,
No springtime bloom, no summer’s golden thrill
Just brittle bones and dusk at end of painful day.
My joints now creak like branches in the breeze,
Each wrinkle carved by sorrow’s steady hand,
The mirror shows what time takes as it please,
And leaves me rooted in a lone thinning land
Yet crows still gather, mocking from the sky,
Their laughter sharp, like needles in the air
But I, though bent, still meet them eye to eye,
Alas! A ghost of pride within my humble stare
Though age may wear the flesh and dim the fire,
But this tattered form still hides a heart entire.
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