The Story Tellers

He sits there beneath the ancient tree,

Gnarled and knotted, bent with years so long,

From another time and place.

In rasping voice, he tells tales in song,

Haunting, passionate, of faith and fears,

Of love now gone to waste.

He paints the smile onto his face,

Bright and eager, a spring in his step,

His scars all hid in costume.

With his funny feats, he makes them laugh,

He jumps and falls, makes the children clap,

Spreading joy across the room.

In half-lit shadow, at a dusty desk,

Defeated and broken, plagued by sorrow,

He's been pushed aside, forgotten.

In shaking hand he fills pages with text,

Fun, insightful, to help the young ones grow,

Teaching them life's great lessons.

He stands with a brush, with his palette of color,

Tired and empty, prematurely old,

He's left his life behind him.

With careful strokes, he forms a picture,

Breath-taking, serene, of beauty, of hope,

Memories not dimmed by time.

But no one asks, and no one knows

The storyteller's tale.

No, no one asks, nobody knows

From whence their stories came.

So 'neath ancient trees, in dusty rooms,

Not heard, not seen, awaiting their time,

Are stories yet untold?

In halls of light and through pain and gloom,

Hesitant, afraid, looking for a sign,

A story-teller waits his turn.