The clear water looks as clean as anywhere else.
The attractive bits of granite add interest to the rusting metal pipe.
The sheared off pieces of the channel lie helpless aside.
Beside such a neglected device it is unwise to abide.
The water spews from the open gash at the gap.
The useless conglomeration of shale destroys the use.
No thoughtful creatures would bother nor malinger there.
As refreshment is not to be found in the garish, smashed up glare.
Such are the cisterns of a fallen man-made place.
Help and nourishment overflow within the boggy space.
This world with all its boasted style and wit.
Cannot sustain us for one moment, as is writ.
There is a fountain that is full and free,
Provided for the broken man by the man on the tree.
No other place survives the storm or raging wrath,
Which condemns all who follow their own broad path.
All mankind are drawn to the gaudy provision of a foolish world that will not learn.
The wise recognise that this attraction they must hastily spurn.
They seek a narrow way where the entrance fee is already paid,
And drink from the cistern of life which on the road is laid.
The broken place will always be there to the end of time,
Until the God of all things has sounded the angles trumpet chime.
It will be swept away and only deep waters remain to truly satisfy,
Where rescued souls have always drank and on their Lord rely.









