Feeling for the winds of yore
The old man glanced at the fabulous river.
Sitting under the shades
He screwed up his beard in reflection.
And it was a silent march of decades,
A parade of seasons upon his chest.
And into the winds and rains of his past
He steered his ferry; memories ever green.
These banks were his cradle
These waters were his contended life.
From the age of eight to eighty three
This ferry was synonym of his life.
And across these banks
He ferried his pastures and dreams.
Upon these waters and winds of yore
He left a tale for the passing clouds.
Within the winds and the winding courses
He met his life with all affections.
And beyond these hamlets, these surging waters
He steered not his ferry and dreams.
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