A timeless tale it is.
November went out to buy some flowers for his little brothers. The waterfalls had started to freeze. The untimely rain had begun to pour. Sky went dim and alleys dark.
But November knew where to march to. He was bewitched by the sound of his brothers’s joy. He walked and walked wearing his utopian smile with an innocent bucket.
Leaves, he all could see. Fallen, crushed, wilted, dying. Leaves asked November to take them with him. He shrugged. ‘My brothers only deserve beautiful flowers’, he said. He made leaves fly along the breeze as ‘Wind Monath’ (wind month) he was called.
He marched forward. Pass the graveyards, pass the deep wells. All the bad signs he thought. ‘Never should I look at the omens while in search of the flowers’, he thought. The Deep Well heard and cursed him.
‘Fool you are to ignore your end. But mind it, you’d never find an end yourself.’ November grunted again and disregarded the words. He moved ahead but then halted. The Death was in front dancing. He saw a typhoon of dried leaves crushing all the flowers and a rage of red, orangish disaster with their emotions speaking volumes. Leaves demanded of November
‘You could have accepted us for we are beautiful too. Not a flower, not a pollen but we are broken too’. A destructive outburst swirled around and caught November in its bosom.
November stayed there in the cyclone of their anger forever, never meeting his end.
It’s November. Always an inch away from the end while the last leaves settle on the ground.
Because the last leaves fall down in November.
©kanikachugh