The Mind Creative
Twilight it was, as I sat, relaxed, an overworked soul,
on the banks of a river;
the swaying water cooling my feet,
exhausted yet relaxed,
eyes closed, at the very doorstep of a dream .
Abruptly, my eyes popped open, for a drop of water had,
on my forehead,
rudely fallen, disturbing a rare moment
of quiet ecstasy.
I looked up – contemplating rain.
But lo! It was the face of a young man
staring down.
A young man?
Nay a child. A child?
Nay a very ancient face,
that looked so like
a withered child’s, yet was laced
with the sagacity of a million years.
And streaming down his ageless face,
gushing down, stronger than the river at my feet
was an unending forlorn rivulet
of pearly white tears
that added a strange hue to the look of
utter desolation,
dejection, despair.
“Who be you, Sire?” I asked. “Be seated,
for you do look so tired,
so lost, so sad.
Pray let your heart out and if you be hungry,
then share this poor man’s bread and
tell me your woeful tale
so that the anguish be eased.”
“I am Sin personified”, he said,
his voice soft yet cold
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