Poetry may come in the form of flowing water,
That tells of no serious thing in particular;
But about the few that wash others’ feet
And the wild that calls the forest home,
It chats of fauns that hide in crevices
Where waterfalls are happy to fall in currents,
Rushing, flowing in streams and slow rivers,
Out of sight, far away from hamlets,
Planting stray seeds on all dry earth
And periodically playing its sounds
Under tree logs, behind boulders
Or mimicking a lengthy song
So that birds stop to listen
To this love song, a balm to the gut
A healing elixir to refresh the soul
Each time one may lay beside calm waters,
Streaks of escaping sun rays glint through tree leaves
As a comfort, when delightful sounds play a melodious tune
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