The Fountain

They say
There is a place
Somewhere in a deep wood
Where there stands
A fountain of youth
Those that drink from it
And as they age
They sing over
The wrinkles
and they dont curse the time theif
They become mothers who give magic to their children
And Fathers who build them wings
They become people who don’t measure their steps
But weigh the depth of their breaths
They are those that whistle as they dry the dishes
They are those that want to know what people are made of
Behind their eyes
They are the ones who hold books like treasures
As they soak in the stories
They are people who smile at strangers
And sit on the front steps
Welcoming the world
Seeing new shades of colors
In the madness
And art
in the chaos
And music
In the traffic
And they hear the poem
In the bitter grunts of the old man across the street
They catch inspiration from the whistle of the wind
that wafts in and out of the trees
That make up the deep wood
Where that fountain stands
Those that drink from it
Are youthful to the grave


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