Sapphire

By Aurin Shaila Nusrat

Sun has gone crimson

and sycamores have stopped to burn

Sycamores, tossing in glee;

hundreds of trees,

thousand years old,

straddle the road.

Road that I racing west,

Driving against memories.

Memories, swaying like breeze,

collide my car, vintage sapphire.

The way never slithers and swirls,

it just goes straight, under

the yellow velvet of quintuplets;

when sun is to be set,

and clouds seeming to be

six months pregnant.

Flurrying to my fuzz,

leaves, with yellow hue,

say that I have some dues;

to the faded pages, worn-out cover,

to the stolen raisins, to the seventeen,

to my dreams and to my nightmare,

to the wind of western sapphire.