I am the River
A boy in a red shirt sits
and contemplates me:
my wildlife, my sand,
my breezes and my trees,
my marvelous water,
but I don’t care;
I am the river.
I have no memory,
only those who worship me.
A doe wades in and stumbles;
the sand will cover her.
When she sinks and is gone
the sand will imitate
my currents in homage,
but I don’t care;
I am the river.
I have no memory,
only those who worship me.
The wind will sweep across me;
it cannot change my course.
I ripple on the surface.
It has already passed
before seeing I fooled it;
but I don’t care;
I am the river.
I have no memory,
only those who worship me.
The trees grow on steep banks
drinking the water,
but they will pay my price.
Growing old, they will fall.
some I carry, some I drop;
but I don’t care;
I am the river.
I have no memory,
only those who worship me.
In winter cold, summer warm,
In spring high, in autumn low,
one day the water will leave.
All that will remain:
a lone swale in the fields;
but I won’t care;
I was the river.
I had no memory,
only those that worshipped me.