Stood by the river,
and watched it repeat,
its constant motion,
fluidity, rather, the thing we call flow.
Under the bridges, over the hills,
in the rocky terrain, or smoothened estuaries,
In its fold,
carrying many miles of burdensome
stones, twigs, leaves and lives,
leaving behind, taking ahead.
Neither bound by
itself or the other,
not caring of pleasure or passion,
like unsullied time, without meaning or purpose.
Flowing, sinuous, unbroken.
Gushing down and toiling up,
all tied into one, yet in pursuit of its
One true end.
All meant to be unified,
in one final fall,
into the fertile delta,
is just a new beginning,
of another unyielding,