Well

The well is heavy, you won’t pull up the well,
it has roots, it’s like the oak.
Water green and stagnant,
water self-evident, all by itself.
They let down a ladder, they flung a leg over,
anxiety gripped them,
from below they called,
they looked upwards, they saw the stars.
Three times they cast deep,
they found a chainlet,
they found a blue pot,
they found a needle.
They brought out a floating apple.
They drew out a ball, soaked in water
and squirting like an orange.
They drew out a clock stopped by mud,
not the one from the conjuror’s hat.
Quietly they emerged, the well
was unmoving, powerful and of high age.
Later they drew out
the frog at the source,
a helmet,
they stuck it with pitchforks, tossed it aside,
carried it forth like a trophy.
The water went behind them, it rose up
and was self-evident, all by itself.