Runs forever, taking the same
Path over and over again,
Whirling, falling but non-tiring,
neither fleeing nor in pursuit,
When winter befalls, the surface
Turns to stone, and still it may
Seem, but nay it runs.
The scorching Sun like the
former, pauses not, slows not,
It flows, sometimes with
Violence, sometimes with
Utmost tranquility, a path it
Knows, a path it will lead forever,
It knows not silence, but constant
Mumbles and grumbles, a language
It solely comprehends. It’s inception,
a memory it can’t place, and
thus it runs,
So there goes the river, through
the hills, through the valleys
running forth, with it’s might,
Quenching the thirst of the earth,
Flora, fauna, but chocking the life of
Those who plunge in its depth.
What a subtle marvel?!
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