I have a friend who is stripped by the west-wind that sways—mostly teeters—her branches; and her crown, once ornamented with golden leaves, these days holds rusty jewels, if any. The leaves that used to solidify her as the aureate Himalayas now have melt to form [just] a puddle around her; Pedestrians glance at it, bathe their ankles to splash, to scatter her leaves even further away from her; other pieces bury themselves in grief. Her skeleton-like body seems lifeless, leafless; she is alive, even after the leaves of hopes dangling on her bones pluck themselves as more of the west-wind urges her to.

Question not my friend’s innocence; the wind blew too harsh on her. Do not question her strength; her trunk still stands upright. Her autumn fluorescence is colorful. I conform to you. But why do you say her color-less when west wind of winter sheds her leaves while she still has her brown and ashy coat on? Is that not a color? Is brown not beautiful? Do not question her nudity.

My friend is still beautiful. Her boughs are not brittle, and her canopy still faces the sky. “lifeless”,
“dead”, “colorless”—my friend should not be simile-ed, since she is alive and colorful.
You, my friend, are beautiful, and no wind shall un-beautify, un-strengthen you.