Su Ben Poet Free verse

The Vagabond

—The autumn leaves—

Although there is no paradise
nor a place where he is welcomed
the waned vagabond has to leave when autumn is at hand.

No way to search for why, and dwells in such a crooked fatality 
at this, likewise, the distressed annual ring grown under the shade,
darkens by the sun that has turned against him.

As the night falls, the vagabond, in need of a night’s shelter,
stops for a moment and looks back to count his own footmarks 
he has left behind.

Nevertheless, when the lights are gone, from the windows nearby 
and yonder the dewdrops fall onto the darkened pathway and are 
anxious to know the monotony of a journey that is in a torn knapsack.

Autumn leaf is a vagabond.  The fruits of a happy home is 
the blossoms that never was found on the boughs of a fig tree.
For the sake of the cold dewdrops, Oh, night, too long.

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