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The River Race

I gaze upward at the good-humored clouds,
Wistfully wading through the endless sea above,
As the fish push my log raft farther down
The rushing road of water,
Wondering…
Whether it would be the clouds
Or the water, supporting my outstretched limbs,
To reach the end of the world first.

And so the river flows on…
As do I…
As do the clouds…
Waiting for the expiration of the day,
And the coming of the night,
To the rising of the sun over again.

Colors flit by like butterflies,
And cities flip through like cinemas,
Still, I do not lift a finger as my log raft glides by,
Wondering...
If it is the fish that move the water,
Or the water that moves the fish forward,
Toward the sun setting over emerald treetops,
For it is spring now, but will soon be
Summer, fall, winter, spring.

And so the river flows on…
As do I…
As do the clouds…
Racing towards the end of time,
I am just along for the ride.

What a peace my soul feels,
As my skin feels the river’s mist,
What euphoria my heart holds,
As my toes tip into the current,
My mind contains such splendor,
As my eyes explore majesties,
And yet my conscience is preoccupied,
Wondering…
If it is the river that is racing,
Or if it is, in truth, the rest of the world,
Pushed by lives ceaselessly moving forward,
Toward one destination or another,
For some are young now, but will soon be
Old, and their time, lost,
Wasted by timidly tiptoeing in shallow banks.


And so the river flows on…
As do I…
As do the clouds…
Awaiting new views and echoes,
Until there is no more.



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