Chapter 4: The Old Man from the Hill
The old man from the hill sat and pondered.
His body was bent and twisted like the dead oak tree above him,
his face was sagged and worn like the weary prairie around him,
but his thoughts crept along like the deep roots below him.
He labored this way for untold years.
The tree crumbled down, the grasses grew thistles,
but in his mind grew a flower, brilliant and shining,
until the time finally came when he couldn't hold it in any longer.
He ran down the hill, scrawny joints in a jumble.
He capered and rolled to the valley below.
The village lay down, alone, in the valley,
where it quietly slept until this certain day.
He ran up to the people, he showed them his secret,
running one to the next in a flurry of bones.
The whole village was shown, and they knew it together,
there was laughter and cheering, the old man was beloved.
He lived in the village, for a time, simply watching,
to see what flowers the seeds he'd planted would bear.
The villagers explored this new gift they'd been given,
they used it and stretched it as much as they could.
They hurled it like venom at each other in anger,
and blew it so gently to the ones that they loved.
In all his delight the old man grew weary,
and took to his bed, to sleep for untold years.
When he finally awoke to find what great things he'd inspired,
he took to the streets to see what had grown.
All around him were seeds, the same one he'd shared,
multiplied, but the same.
The villagers content, never grew their own flowers,
just copying the seed again, and again.
The light flickered and faded out of his eyes,
and his back slightly stooped as he left for the hills.
He had given them greatness and poured out his soul,
he had shown them all what they each could grow.
And yet, not a one among them had done so,
leaving him all alone at the top of a hill.
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Topic: Through the Madman's Lens : Timeway (Read 2921 times)