He sat there alone on the floor
Outside the Workshop, barefoot,
In his flowing robes of gold!
Quill in hand deftly scribbling His findings –
His observations on life.
Yet I was petrified of him!
Daily I had to enter there –
Through that door behind him
Yet still he scribbled!
The sight of his long unkempt hair
Flowing in the breeze, his gnarled
Knuckles with long spindly fingers
Turning each word-filled page
The Sands Of Time before him slowly
Oh! So slowly cascading downwards
To accompany his every word!
“Don’t” I’d pray, “Please don’t look
Upon me and then
Include me in your findings.
Let me be free and not trapped upon
Your page – free to step from your
View and from the passing Sands Of Time!"