The Magic
I grow a little weary now,the path to the top is
a struggle uphill
and the loose chippings
cause my feet to slip
so we slide a little
into apathy
The thought of cool water
entices me so much
and although
I am footsore
I am nearly at the ridge.
It is a cloudless day
below me is the fort
where so many
battles were fought
There is a little hollow
nearby, cut into the rock
cool, fresh water seeps
while little lizards
hide at the sound of feet.
We call it
Fontaine des mit,
the waters give sight to the blind
and hearing to the deaf.
It has magic, I know
I have seen its power
I bathed my sons eyes
and within days
the infection had gone.
I don't question these marvels
or retreat into superstition
I accept what is -
and it is here
where I can
finally breathe again.
Poetry by Elle
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Written on 2008-03-12 at 09:58
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