Along the dusty trails
At a forlorn crossing
Sat a water bearer plying his ware
Whence came a thirsty traveler
To quench, readily a bowl did he fare
And ere as he gulped,
the traveler, the draughts
till quenched and satiated
Wiping the moisture from his beard
He verily declared,
Many a watering holes
Have I come across in my travels
But neer has the water tasted as sweet
nor as refreshing
Blessed be you
Dear water bearer
Not only am I quenched, Im renewed
There must be some magic
With which you author your draught!'
Sire, its the heavens
Which bring the rains,
The stream which carries it herein
I merely carry this from the riverbed
What magic might I place therein?
Ah foolish you, to not espy
The spice with which you lace
Your drink, tell me forsooth
When you do serve water, do you not
serve it with love and care?
Sire, your words fill me with warmth
Your truth I dare not decry
But pray tell me, if the heavens rained
Months before, foretelling your thirst to rivers
How can the author be me?
Theres some wisdom
In what you say, my man
Water have I e'er before tasted
Yet in this quench special
Can you, your participation deny?
Sire, the winds participated
in taking moisture from the sea,
the gravels of the river bed
lent murmur to the draught
True along with my goatskin, there also was I
But were it not for the Sun,
Your throat wouldnt be parched,
Were it not for your dreams
You wouldnt have travailed to travel
In this mystical cosmos
Wherein do we then draw the line?
And declare whether the author was YOU or I?
When the heaven decreed to rain with love
Let us all also go about our day with love
My dharma is to quench, yours is to travel
And perhaps the water
and thirst between them
for this moment's quench, had
Authoured YOU and me?
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