I walk along, breathing the frosty late autumn air. Leaves rustle, speaking as they are moved aside by my feet. But then I pause, silencing their death rattle. Is there another sound? I listen. The trees, some still wearing a wispy shroud of yellow, brown and orange, whisper to me. What secrets will they share?
I am told that the adoring crowds had called his name. He had stood, proud, chin up, condemning all who disagreed as sad losers. His followers chanted back his very words. Is the wind echoing these throngs? Are the words still alive, speaking to condemn all who he perceived as an enemy?
No. A senseless babble about how in the years too many to count, the span of the life of one man is meaningless is all that I hear. He is silenced now, and the words forgotten. Not even the wind will remember.
Wind whispers through leaves
Does the tree grow on a mound
Its purpose long lost?
The mighty king ruled the land
Now is just forgotten dust
This was written for Colleen’s Poetry Challenge. This is week 200! This is a theme week, and the chosen them is The Illusion of Power. My mind went two ways – the graveyard scene in Hamlet on the one hand, and our current politics on the other. Of course, there is also Halloween coming up… Put together with recently read words about hundreds of grave barrows of forgotten kings, well… I chose to write a Haibun with a Tanka at its core.