Cry me a river.

And name it Everlasting.

For your tears will fall

To water the seeds of our love.

That will grow along the banks

Of your saltwater stream,

Into beautiful pines,

Who will not forget their creator.

And they will softly

Whisper the tales of our love.

And the wind will carry

Their voices and make them

Into joyous shouts.

And all the great oaks of the forest

Will swell with envy.

But in their crude imitations

They will be blinded

By pride and ignorance.

And the wind will continue

To beat against their bodies

Strong though they may be

They will remain unbending

And they will fall.

While our pines bend

Gracefully in the wind,

Letting it move them this way and that,

Making the wind their puppet master.

He pushes them to their limits,

Bending them so far

That their needles

Prick the calm waters of our river.

But they obey,

Ever whispering their tales.

The wind smiles

And weaves their words

Into a magnificent tapestry.

He drapes his literary needlework 

over the world,

Boasting its beauty to the small globe.

And the world will stand

In awe of every single strand,

Each with it’s own divine purpose.

And at the source,

Humble and quiet,

Everlasting flows still,

True to its name.