An old man by the river

I walked up to the old man piping by the river-

His tunes rang of age, of nature, of melancholy;

Of stories of love untold, and of deaths to unfold,

Of cheerful girls, and flowers preparing to bloom.

His jingles gave me cold shiver-

Would talking to him be folly?

Should I be cold or bold?

A pending decision staring at doom.

“Old man, what do you do all day by the river?”

“Talk to her”, he shot back sharply,

“Does she respond?”

“Only if you know what to say!”

“And what do you say?”

Then there was a pause, accompanied by a smile-

“She listens to everything, she’s kind;
After all these years, she knows what’s on my mind.”

“Can you hear the water striking the rocks?

She’s nurturing them to be strong,

Washing them of their sins,

Training them what’s right, what’s wrong;

She’s vocal, can you hear?

She’s taught me too, more than any seer,

She talks of perseverance, without dillydally-

Incessantly flows to meet the sea.”

“She lends me strength to never stop,

To sing of stories, transport them-

From mud-huts on to concrete;

She taught me to love unconditionally,

To be a true giver, and a believer,

She evokes fear with her speed

Threatening to demolish all with greed

But fighting for the lives of all in need.”

I was glad I had walked up to the old man,

I looked at the river, wanting to speak,

Of things I had never told anyone

Of secrets that had to be washed, not buried-

I did not care what I had to say,

‘Cause I knew she would listen ’em all,

She’s impartial, knows I’ll always be a beginner,

I returned happy, with tears but certainly wiser.