By Yasen Vedrin
(The Copper Bowl)
A beautiful legend conquered my mind.
An old, sacred tale of a river so grand.
It healed every torment and grief of mankind,
Once washing the heart with a splash from the hand.
The deepest and open wounds quickly would mend.
No scar or a mark would remain to be seen.
A broken flower its new roots would send.
A dying spirit would spark and grow clean.
Along the green bank, a true Eden for all,
Day and night, lines of crowds would arrive.
The misfortunes of life that would bitterly fall,
Everyone wanted to melt and survive.
But they failed to learn the great lesson inside,
Concealed in the wise, flowing river and creek.
They were only enticed by the success and the tide,
Without a heart weeping in chests of the meek.
Without the silence of awe for the grace,
Without each poor soul bowing down in the mud…
And with hope, that the Lord had awakened to trace,
To give out around drops of love like a flood…
The clamor and cries from the mouths with no peace
Then saddened the river with sorrow and dread.
In a flash, all the waters subsided to cease,
And the green, blooming bank became darkened and dead.
Thus they left, with their anger unconquered and high,
Long lines of sin-burdened and sorrowful souls.
And they quickly returned with their open wounds nigh,
Midst misfortunes that shatter all human goals.
Only an old man with weeping and sighs
Held a handful of gift from the stream in his palms.
And he wrote in a legend of wisdom and cries
This end of the human estate and its qualms.
The river is still flowing living out there,
And with its pure waters a wonder imparts.
It is seen in the eyes that are weeping in prayer,
When people humble before God their hearts.
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