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  • By David B. Gosselin

The Waterfall

“So noisy are the towns and villages,” remarked The sage as he and his young pupil made

Their way across the bustling thoroughfares,

Heading towards the mountains and the mist.

The boy, only accustomed to the sound

Of rustling towns and city happenings,

Half-listened as he looked ahead towards

The snowy mountains, so near, yet so far.

Rising up from the earthly surface to the sky,

Piercing the sprawling cloudscapes up above,

The glistening peaks arrested his young eyes,

Their crests adorned with all the elements:

The pristine snow and careless alpine winds,

A gentle frost and pines that fear no cold.

But back below and far from busy towns,

After trekking for many quiet hours,

They heard a faint and playful murmuring

Beckoning them towards the leaf-dimmed light:

Soon, deep amid the forest’s evergreens,

Solacing caves and gnarled untrodden paths,

They found themselves before a waterfall

Whose racing cataracts and foaming floods

Somehow inspired in them the calmest thoughts.

“The truth, though men forget, is never lost,”

Said the sage as he sat next to the boy;

They watched the foaming floods rush on for hours.

David Gosselin is a writer, researcher and poet based in Montreal, Canada. He writes on Substack at Age of Muses. His collection of poems is entitled Modern Dreams.

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