A Song for the Leaves by Ali Znaidi

“The tree has no leaves and may never have them again.
We must wait till some months hence in the spring to know.”
—Robert Frost

I want to sing a song of those birds which are cooing and standing
carefree on the boughs. I love their mystical rituals of Sufis .I want
to be intoxicated by the delicate perfume of the leaves before they
will be burnt or made into toilet papers. I gaze and gaze, I even ogle
the vividness of the leaves. I am speechless. I hold my breath. I am
agape, as if it is the first time in my life that I see green leaves. And
with all this greenness— a really true green, I can’t help but let out
a big true smile because my innermost is really rapturous—a state of
elatedness that Madonna experienced when her “La Isla Bonita”
topped the Singles Chart. Ogling the leaves gives me that
power to capture that lint of thought that was just a fugitive earlier on;
I’m really rapturous—exquisite emotionality metabolises green in my
veins, and with all the commotion I can’t help but keep ogling, and
reel from the magnitude of the encumbering weariness and the extreme
psychic pain. I find myself with so many leaves, so vivid, like a king
with so many women. I can do nothing but touch whatever leaf that
reaches towards me, inhale its pure oxygen and sink into ecstasy. Even
when I stop touching the leaves I just lie under the foliage listening to
the rustling, whispering and murmuring of the leaves—such a music to
the ear. Leaves have emotions too. They moan with pain when the power
saws are doing the boughs; but once great always great. The tree is always
great despite saws, axes and knives. The tree never genuflects to her
executioners. The leaves are used and abused but they still rustle, dance,
& jive just to enrage the executioners, and make them feel how little they
are in front of their majestic grandeur! Oh, dear Chomsky! I think we cannot
apply PS-rules to the syntax of the leaves because their syntax is so mysterious.
It has its own enigma that is difficult to unravel. How can we apply these rules
to their syntax? Especially when the leaves touch each other .They seem like
exchanging glances, cuddles, hugs, and rolling in the hay, but in a Platonic pure
way. I really feel rapturous. I’m just under the tree considering the lights that
flicker through the leaves. This scene deports me to realms of glee. The foliage
scent stirs something pleasurable inside me. It even eradicates any stench that
dares to come in the presence of the leaves… I can’t help but succumb to this
charm and continue singing my song…
leaves of every shapes:
lutes, drums, guitars, and cellos
a sweet dulcet song

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