The Monk

I am a monk,
Saintly as someone once said.
I sit atop the hill
Overlooking your valley.
I survey your lives
From under the cool shades
Of the blissful trees
With my crystal eyes.


While passing through
The valleys where you breathe,
Before I climbed up this hill,
I was once down there with you,
In the bustle of life,
Where miracles happen,
Away from these still shadows
Of trees which shelter me now.

Now from here I watch you grow,
I watch you cry, and laugh,
I watch you fight, and love,
All with my resplendent smile.
And I wish I cried, I laughed,
I fought, and loved and all
That you did, instead of being me,
Still, blissful, wise, on a hill.

But then I see you cry,
And run to the hill, to me,
To seek my blissful words so wise.
I shun my jealous demons,
I have to, because I can,
A weight indeed, but I must,
And rivers of bliss flood
My tumultuous wavering mind.

So I turn to you,
And smile your worries away,
Ever so gladly, for I am
The young monk on the hill.
I am human too,
I feel you more,
And as I feel all that you feel,
I can see your pain.