Springs
The bounty of the earth, from
Its soul, the springs
By the hillside, along
Every road,
And at the path to the yard,
Without any price,
They were given to us.
Bottles, tubes, and reservoirs
Were invented,
Sealed in bottles.
The springs were forgotten,
Their streams
Dried up.
The song of the nightingale
Was never seen
In the eyes of the spring.
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Author:
Sami Mulaj (
Offline) - Published: February 1st, 2026 19:10
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 17
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments1
This poem holds a sadness. The springs are alive and when they dry so does life. I have a spring that feeds the house and in over a hundred years it has not gone dry yet some day it might and I dread that day. And the nightingale will sing its song with a dry throat that day. A fave
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