The Fountain

Somewhere, a long time ago, in a foreign city, the sign was saying something important. That much I knew. Cut into the stone in sharp serious letters, Arcing over a fountain bubbling fresh water from the mountains, the words, undecipherable to me, were revealing an essential truth. Or maybe the phrase's ellipsis was prompting me for a response. I stared for a long time, waiting for the characters to dance and reorder themselves to make their meaning clear. They never did and, when a passing group of school children broke the spell, I stepped forward and drank from my cupped hand. Someday I'll return to see if those words make sense to me now.