The Lake

The Lake

There once was a man who spat in a lake

Polluted and foul, water opaque.

He chewed the leaf, he could not quit

This substance that he used to spit.

If I recall, he used to say:

‘I'll damn well spit here every day!’

‘Because! Why not? No harm is done!

The lake is foul, I hurt no one!’

Yet as he spat, he did grow ill

A loss of health, an ebb of will,

His teeth were foul, his clothes were rank

His bathroom and his kitchen stank,

His house unkempt, just like his yard

‘I just don’t feel like working hard.’

‘In fact I do not care at all,

‘For life is meaningless and small.’

And so indeed it had become,

For spitting makes the heart go numb.


One fine day a man appeared

Wizened, with a whitish beard,

He spoke few words, though made them count,

His message plain yet paramount. 


‘To save your life, for your own sake,

You must not pollute this lake.

Your task, in fact, is to ensure

The lake remains both clear and pure.

For only when the water’s clean

Can creatures deep within be seen.

The spitting’s just the place to start,

To clear these waters of your heart.’


From that day forth he did not chew,

And sought to live his life anew.

His purpose now, of one awake,

To see the depths, beyond the lake. 



Three Questions

Three Questions