The and of the fool

The hand of the fool is as the river,

never dreaming to cease its breath.

With tranquility forever tasking itself,

And not a storm can stop him but death.

*

Aint thinkin' of its purpose,

Nor where its foolishness arrives.

He simply keeps his flow unending,

As a breakless car that still drives.

*

Yet, the river somehow holds gold,

And sets beauty to her flow.

Unlike the fool who lacks the logic

to put a glory in his go.

*

Stop the mind for just a moment

and be sure you're not the fool of word.

It aint pretty, nor in glory,

witness will be the river bird.