There it was a tiny shack
A sixty year old man
emaciated by time
saved by a head a hair and a smile
Selling iceblocks in the thirty degree heat
Next to the grand river seven meters across
dark brown and deep blessed and fed by far off mountains
There he stood welcome in the eyes
That shack freshly painted
That smile freshly formed
The quiet rippling of the river
He waves at me
But I am on the otherside
Toiling the dark soil
hungry for autumn
As he once was
On his side the sun beats down furiously
Children surround loosening signs of spring
He distributes each rare flavor of popsickle
Anecdotes that see eyes beam and smiles widen
That old man who has half of what I have
But twice as much to give to a world- one he makes bright!
I tried envy and it exhausted my veins
I tried competition basic empty sick vanity
He just exited his little shack
The sun followed his motion
The river seemed to slow on his side
villagers heralded him
So much mojo in that supernatural deference of his
I went back to weeding my tomatoes
Nenhum comentário:
Postar um comentário