Wednesday, June 12, 2013


The old man turned to me and asked,
"How many friends have you?"
"Why 10 or 20 friends have I,"
And named off just a few.

He rose quite slow with effort,
And sadly shook his head:
"A lucky child you are,
To have so many friends," he said,

But think of what you're saying,
There is so much you do not know:
A friend is just not someone,
To whom you say, "Hello."

A friend's a tender shoulder,
On which to softly cry:
A well to pour your troubles down,
And raise your spirits high.

A friend is a hand to pull you up,
From darkness and despair;
When all your other "so-called" friends,
Have helped to put you there.

A true friend is an ally,
Who can't be moved or bought:
A voice to keep your name alive,
When others have forgot.

But most of all a friend is a heart;
A strong and sturdy wall.
For from the hearts of friends,
There comes the greatest love of all!

So think of what I've spoken,
For every word is true;
And answer once again, my child,
"How many friends have you?"

And then he stood and faced me,
Awaiting my reply.
Softly, I answered,
"If lucky ... one have I ... you!"

~Author Unknown~