Life: it is but my contingent journey.
The river stands still not one minute,
Her sympathy is but a fluke,
Burbling to the rush, the mimic,
Mimic of humankind; her only link
Is the end, the ocean of another place.
The river remains, in her way, teasing
Synapses where sense cannot see
The ebb of life flowing onwards;
Their beds are man-made,
Made for man to wander in slumber,
Eyes of glass, windowless, bare-sighting
An optical world, illusion drenched in mist.
Aroma there of a crimson fade,
Dripping into what seas of sapphire
Harbour the passenger’s secrets:
Not walking, merely running,
Only beside the vista for a bead of time,
When all that can be done
Is to trace the silk amongst the sky,
Dewy canvas above and below,
As if silence knows, is painted with the
Days’ emotions, night’s reclusion.
Yet the river knows of vanity,
Her own cycle imminent;
She laps and laughs, watching them
Treading trails of pebbles,
Blindly following the guides along the sand;
Bodies reflective only in the foam that shows
What is internal-timepiece concealed:
Eyes of the contingent, visions of the traveller.