The leaves are all gone...

 The leaves are all gone...
   Only the maple tree's staying up -
  yellow, but fresh
   like some elders
  walking with Swedish sticks round the Park...
 
  "Not an invalid,
   a sportsman!" -
  my mom used to say...
 
  Now her grave is all covered
   by maple leaves...
 
  I'll have to get it cleaned
   over and over again
  until
   they're down,
  all down...
 
  It's cold
   and machines
  are all over the Park
   brushing away the leaves...
 
  There is no peace...
 
  I can stand
   the swish of a broom,
  but the heartless machines...
 
  The whole City's continually dug through...
 
  Only the River...
   But even the way to the River
  was dug up...
 
  My City will never be quiet...
 
  If machines
   clean the graves in the future
  I really don't want to lie there...
 
  Shall we find any Peace in That World?
 
 
   ***
 
  And everything fails you -
   people and things...
  Even my page was deleted,
   the page of my happiness
  and recognition...
 
  Why should it be so?
   Who knows...
 
  Luckily,
   I can still walk...
  So I walk round the Park
   thinking about the life
  that we have
   and about the Life
  we shall have...
 
  P.S. Yesterday I read:
  George White died last August...
   His heart failed him...
 
  I was his personal translator
  in 1988
 
   
 
 
  And Jaque d'Anmoise's later
 
 
  P.P.S. I haven't been to the Park
  for some time
  and things seem to be new.
  Why can I never portray
  what I see?
 
 
 
  Oct. 23, 2025
 
  P.P.P.S. The squirrels are flying so high,
  high above...
  from a branch to a branch,
  from a tree to a tree...
  How do they do that?
  I have no ide...
  Poets don't know either
  how they write their po-
  et-
  ry...