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