A rotting leaf in the Bougainville Park, that I clicked on the first evening of this year, haunted me for days, resulting in an experimental poem in surrealism.

Pray assure me, don't I resemble

Neil Armstrong's stamped foot on the moon's Tranquility?

Perhaps, more likely I am the fossilised remnants

of an ancient sole of a sandal

that might have unwittingly slipped off a royal foot,

Maybe that of a Pharaoh, Ahmose or Khufu,

minutes before he was decimated by his long-necked sister-wife

In the incestuous sands of Nubia or Giza,

and mummified by Men of Anubis,

sans the royal luggage from within,

Packed and loaded in a gold-turquoise boat,

majestically drifting heavenward

In the moonlight of hieroglyphics- chiseled, midnight-blue Nile waters,

Weaving the river in silver, sapphire and gold?

But then I believe I am a poor decaying leaf,

in a dilemma,

Who I am after all

, with a trickle of life still left in me,