The Village Well

It happened long ago, many hundreds of years past,
When scorching drought struck the countryside vast.
The dried-up wells gave no water more,
No trace of rain or dew touched the shore.
The deadly sun blazed, the crops withered away,
From lips disappeared songs and laughter gay.
Not a drop to drink, man and beast fell dead,
The roadside trees stood with leaves turned yellow instead.
People came together, the elders spoke their mind:
"We'll perish here under heaven's curse unkind,
No mortal soul can help us in our plight,
Let us depart to seek fresh water bright."
Slowly the painted chests were filled to the brim,
On ox-drawn carts furniture and pillows stacked to the rim.
Some mourned their plowed fields, others their home with a sigh,
As the village set forth, every soul, low and high.
Days came and went, days passed one by one,
Tired and tormented, they trudged on and on
In the scorching sunshine, under starlit night sky,
But water they found not, though hard they did try.
When they reached the border of the Triple Mountain's shade,
Loud complaints and laments filled the forest glade:
"Why journey further? Water we'll never find,
Let's rest here at the forest's edge, peace of mind."
Only shepherd George alone, hoping and believing,
Drove his flock through the darkness, never ceasing.
His exhausted body laid down to rest,
A pleading prayer whispered from his breast.
And as he fell asleep, a wondrous dream appeared:
From heavenly heights, a bright angel neared.
His radiant garment glistened in the night,
A white lily held in his hand so bright.
Thus he spoke to the lad:
"Sleep not, Shepherd George! Where you rest, there dig!"
The heavenly light vanished, the vision disappeared.
The young man awoke, rubbed his eyes clear,
Took spade in hand and set to work in the moonlight's gentle cheer.
Then what did he see: wonder of all wonders,
Clear water bubbled up where his spade had sundered.
A grateful prayer he sent up to the Lord,
And led his thirsty lambs to the well's reward.
When all were refreshed by the water's grace,
He remembered the group left in the forest's embrace.
Had they found water? If not, they would perish.
So running he made his way back, their lives to cherish.
Hearing of the miracle, the whole camp came in haste,
The dream-seeing shepherd became their leader placed.
No further did they wander, here they settled down,
Tilled the soil and built houses all around.
This small village bears the name Györgyfalva true,
For after Shepherd György, so the legend tells through.
How many hundreds of years since it was founded, no one knows,
But in the village center, the "Village Well" still holds.