the old well is
an old woman,
dispirited, hunched,
aggrieved of all
its drawers

a dark realm
reigns over here
ever ready
to throw its vengeance
on unsuspectful
strangers

only heaven has
the generosity
to give it grace -
the rain fills it up
and when the
weather is fine
the sky plays with it
a gentle childful game
of master sun, queen moon
and angel stars

nobody greets
the old well
a good morning
or evening

all they do
is ungratefully
bend over,
scaring its peace
and tranquility
with a coquettish bucket
that goes splash
before going down
into a private sanctum
to whittle away its vitality
yesterday, today,
tomorrow, everyday;
always in a hurried
and callous manner
the water slushes
sloshes, splashes,
slashes to echo
the well's discontents

the old well is
an aggrieved woman
beaten to hatred
a restless soul filled
to the brim with
vengeance and chagrin

to pass by one at night
one would be lucky
if one's heart does
not stumble and
race faster
than one's legs
because the well's
ominous mouth
in all the solemness
of its sobers and age
is ever ready
to draw your spirit in
with its damp,
dark and cold tales
and selfishly holds it there
with the tenuous grip
of a viper for a thousand years