Well of Destiny


At the well of destiny
the impostor of dreams met the conceiver of beliefs
and shook hands
for the same length of their intent:
to gain volume on their glass of sand
and have patience mould some stars in clay
for the girl with almond eyes they framed,
there, in the place where she came
her dreams to perpetuate
with only a big heart and one cent.
Like the north and south of the same eagerness,
wordsmiths of words conjuring nothingness,
they tossed sparks of promises around her faith
to feed their essence with her innocence
to drink a rare drop of blue
under a sky witnessing fallacious virtues.

The first was shrewd of shows and old of means,
brandishing techniques of paramount reveries,
selling fame and wishes
for every sip of blood his victims
would bestow to such mesmerist
and learn by heart a melody with subliminal lyrics
which his black eyes were preaching
with the smile of his past victories.
The other one too young
was running for fresh trust
to gain experience and be grand
just like his rival beside
except that he wouldn?t steal hearts
but let butterflies without wings fly
or would endorse summers deprived of sun.

The well of yore could see it all,
beyond the murmurs of its revolt
and as the wisest of the world,
it welcomed the coin
and listened to the girl?s inner voice
moved by her beauty to perceive,
with undulations shivering for her safety,
in a space where time was just skimming through values;
it gently reflected her face
from the deepness of its memories,
answering to her who to believe in,
what strength and soul legacy to better keep
or where to search
when universes would dissipate in mist.

As she laid upon its marble steps,
staircase of symbols in art shapes,
tired of thoughts, refilled with love,
the girl said goodbye to both courtesans
for a better reach of her horizons,
for a deeper purpose of her essence
and watched her coin fall
in the piths of her own hope
where it was cherished like gold,
among the old and young and bold –
reminiscences of peregrines
who passed by wisdom?s ponderings
at least once a lifetime in that spot of bounty.

For no one could ever grasp
that the well was hiding the registrar of lives
where, coin by coin, all entries were kept
like strings of fate to evaluate,
to give worth or remove glow
to sighs and lies of hearts and minds
for the sake of just one word
named the secret of the world,
kept in potions of bliss only for those
who proved themselves right over the wrong –
a matter of strength and lenience
at the well of happiness.

(Soar, May 2013, ? www.soaring-words.com. Picture: Fontana di Trevi, Rome; Picture credits: Soar)

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