On the side street, where the poet
took his nightly walk, shots resonated,
yelling, and a car driving fast;
on the pavement a man´s blood
was running into the gutter.
The police asked what he had seen?
You must have seen something?
I saw a waterfall running down
a mountainside in spring and
the air was pure.
Weeks later an envelope in his
postbox, five thousand dollars.
The poet smiled at last someone
had paid him for his poetry