You Old Chenar!

Oh, you, old chenar tree!

You have cheated me for being new here

Letting me take you as an old maple—

Only the leaves, if there can be differences other than size.

Now, your lush green foliage crumpling yellowish-light-brown

Littering around you like fallen grey hair proving your time.

More sadly, those third-fourth-hand used cars under your overhanging branches

Bear your litters over their being bleached rooted like to prove

How fuss of infatuation is just a blink, emotional deception.

But your short trunk bearing three prime branches looks robust,

Why not, for the act of displaying the same cyclic beauty,

The lesson, the nature how we have tried to shun.

The bright yet yellowish glowing lamp lighted up your vicinity,

An emphasis on your skeleton by lighting from below.

Oh, sorry, you fume for being that revealed,

For being that ungrateful for the gone years beauties you imparted,

Leave the uncertain upcoming.

And the queue of those stationed old sputtering cars,

Within their white-lined prisons, are there for  you, you old chenar!

And I, too, find times to look out of the window and cast glances at you

To prove I see you closer day by day, learn more day by day, friend!

You must be laughing down at the vibrating engine below you,

The new infatuation, unaware of, how possible, where to end up…

The old-new car, a silver grey nice sedan it is.

The driver with his lover by him have now time to stay longer in it

By letting the engine vibrate like ignoring you.

The yellowish hand, as the effect of the light, on the knee,

The other’s hand covering the bare one on her knee.

Infatuation within infatuation—and so to learn and see so.

The sacrifice of life for such simple yet complex joys.

An alien one, I, cast several peeks down

Trying to catch the clearer glimpses of the yellowish hand over the other,

The movements, the subtle caring nervous quivers.

It isn't possible to peer closer as there are lots to see around,

Such accidental revelations tonight, a rare time.

The overcast night sky that spares vanishing patches of clearness.

Oh, Mr. Moon, though almost full, captured behind the dark gliding veils,

Hidden but your milky lights couldn’t be hidden.

Or you are trying to steal peeks as me over the sleepy town—

Especially, what I spot down there?

So strangely, what I find the next day, the sudden baldness,

The unwelcome patch among lovely greeneries nearby including the old chenar.

The leveling and cutting that have left the baldness like the scar of ringworm,

So sudden, how could the man, father, and the boy, the son in army trousers,

Carry out such leveling behind their home, a villa, normal European style home,

Within short period of time, morning till afternoon?

I mean by their bare hands with simple tools, as my instinct holds.

Oh, only later, I find it isn’t so, foolish.

It was carried out by the chain-wheeled machine with the rolling blade at its front,

So sharp leaving not a single leaf torn into several pieces,

Even the pale-dark soils, the natural skins, roll-grinded in its heavy rolling blade,

The monster fangs with such infernal noises.

Like a yellow toy bus, but bigger than toy, the driver is in the glassed cabin,

Couldn’t be seen from here, with the arched front glass like a protruding single devouring eye.

I see how it knocks down the lovely young beech after some shoves,

Oh, so sad, it drops down for their second infatuation.

An ocher coated pony in the next by such leveled patch,

The odd vegetable bed untamed but unused lawn,

The odd play ground set with a small trampoline recently

But without anyone to play jumping up on its springy dark round patch,

Just a display, parents’ sacrifice in their mimicries how to treat children.

Yes, the pony, so placid, all the day long there,

Heeds not a lift of its bowed head like already being deafened.

Its nibbling dark mouth on the green tufts around and in the untamed bed

Just marked by the two ocher flower pots with no flowers but dark soils

And the vestiges of hand-touch on the small patch within the old leveled patch.

A man, like in his fifties, in white T-shirt and pale blue nylon trousers,

Could be a supervisor to the progress of leveling to create another such patch but grander?

His grey hair cropped but the mid shiny yellowish bald patch so visible from here.

His hands behind, mute, like brooding or calculating, with his eyes fixed before.

A grey wheel barrow stands near by the man, not like the old rusted lawn-cutting machine,

Must have been brought here for fresh use

But not for those cut logs revealing skinned strips stacked at one side,

Maybe to rot there beside the rusted lawn-cutting machine.

The fresh pale baldness is spacious enough to threaten the surrounding growing ones.

I quickly shut the window to brood inside alone.