The river flows,
flows like a tear
on my grandmother’s cheek,
crossing her face with grace
passing above her wrinkles
waterfalling on a book page.
The river plays,
plays the pebbles
like a thousand drums orchestra,
eternal requiem
for those left behind,
whilst following birds howl their tributes.
The river moves,
moves the stones along the shores,
applauding audience of its music.
Moves a little boy’s paper boat
around mallards and cattails,
over the impervious fishes.
The river drowns,
drowns the little boy’s paper boat
soaking its delicate hull.
Drowns the clumsy squirrel
who dropped his acorn
into the furious stream.
The river flows and plays,
moves and drowns,
and then
reaches the sea.
