On a dull day...
With the sun hidden behind dark shrouds,
his light unable to find a way
through the rain-laden clouds,

As I lay on the bed,
staring out through my window,
Into bright alleys my memory led
my wearied gaze which that dreary picture does endow.

I was walking down the street,
on a pleasant Winter morning.
And quick did trod my feet,
For,for one special company was my heart yearning.

I came to the Fountain,
For me,a dear site.
A place I would dream of,time and again,
till my eyes can see no more the light.

As I came nearer to the place,
I descried my friend,waving at me
to come,with a smile on his face,
to where became friends we.

We talked and talked,
On and on and on,
even of the grass on which we walked.
The end of the dialogue was never anon.

The Fountain would find us there,
on a serene Summer even.
Having escaped from the sun's glare,
lying on the grass and gazing up at the heaven.

On a Rainy afternoon,
he would welcome us with an 'overflowing' joy.
He would leap and fall,gay as a goon,
And would drown us twain with this playful ploy.

We grew,
and with us grew our friendship.
The Time with his webs drew,
our hearts into brotherly companionship...

Then came a day of Spring.
And at the fountain were we yet again.
With the gurgling sound the glade did ring,
but numb were our souls with pain.

The time came for us to part,
to pursue each,his own dream.
We were afraid lest we be torn apart,
tossed by Life's fateful stream.

We vowed never to forget,one the other.
And carved our names on the heart of our weeping 'friend'.
With a heavy heart I embraced my brother
and we walked away,hoping our paths would again together blend...

A clap of thunder,
startled me into the present.
Hoping for another clap to rent the grief asunder,
got up and to the window I went.

I saw a downpour,which promised not soon to wane,
fall out of skies bleak.
Saw drops of water trickling down the window pane,
Felt the tears running down my cheek...

A beautiful Autumn day with a tranquil breeze,
found the Fountain,silent and lonesome now,
waiting for his friends without cease,
preserving the carvings in his heart with love...

Unknown to his friends,the second of the twain
is where one could never weep.
The friends do wait in vain,
for,blanketed is he,from mortal pain,by the golden flowers,warming him in his last sleep...