I create on pages 
Of what's not been told,
The nature, being a diamond 
Finds solace in gold;
The sun, Indian laburnum 
And autumn leaves,
Sometimes brings out an admirer
And other times a thief.

I've seen chapters unfold
And have been a crucial part of them,
Except for the one where 
I let another take the limelight;
I often revisit that chapter 
As an audience, as a scout,
Or simply all that I think about.

I don't recreate it on pages 
But I'll remember for ages 
Of what I once got to behold,
She demands sheer silence
And so I let these pages fold.

I've let gone the diamond,
I've let gone the gold,
And so, I create on pages 
Of what's never been told.