The Babbler sits at the corner
His voice an instrument
Broken since birth
What does he say
What does he say
And comes forth words
Like a muddied stream
Which none can understand
The Babbler sits at the corner
Give him some paint
Give him a brush
What does he say
What does he say
Watch the brush dance
As it renders a secret world
That only he can understand
The Babbler sits at the corner
Give him some paper
Give him a pen
What does he say
What does he say
The pen glides gently
And speaks of hidden things
So that all might understand
The Babbler sits at the corner
Give him a flute
He needs no notes
What does he say
What does he say
Close your eyes to listen
To the song he could not sing
So that you may understand
Aidan Raudenbush
I am so excited and proud to publish my very first guest contribution, this award-winning poem by my 13-year-old son. He is a spiritually intuitive young man.
