I’ve passed this cemetery for years. In the fall, it finally became a pandemic-sketchbook-destination.
A painting and a poem for the autumn equinox.
This is the way that autumn came to the trees:
it stripped them down to the skin,
left their ebony bodies naked.
It shook out their hearts, the yellow leaves,
scattered them over the ground.
Anyone could trample them out of shape
undisturbed by a single moan of protest.
The birds that herald dreams
were exiled from their song,
each voice torn out of its throat.
They dropped into the dust
even before the hunter strung his bow.
Oh, God of May have mercy.
Bless these withered bodies
with the passion of your resurrection;
make their dead veins flow with blood again.
Give some tree the gift of green again.
Let one bird sing.
—Faiz Ahmed Faiz 1911-1984
On foot, I pay much more attention to details of the city in which we live.
From spring 2020 sketchbook. Walking and drawing to help maintain sanity.