a whirlwind snatches a branch
from a baobab tree—
it flails with its leaves
sometimes, it leaves the cocoon of its lost mother.
as it becomes a wanderer,
the sun that used to kiss it with a glow
now kisses it with thistles
and it soon becomes a punctured kite
sheds off its already brown leaves
till it gets handpicked as a firewood
ready to be conflagrated—a ruin.
everything within the teeth
of a ruin was once beautiful
like a face walking into the invasion of wrinkles—
inevitable mobility
rust staying beautiful for too long
next time, when you see a specimen of ruin
ask it :
how old is your beauty?