Continuation

The old stream thought of winter

The melting of snow in the spring

The salmon to come in the summer

The leaves swirling down in the fall

The endless tide of the seasons

Lapping with silent sighs

At its worn brown banks

Its deep stone channels

And the pools where the bones bury

Their white in the gray of the mud

 

The old stream dreamed of the sea

Rough madness of fresh into salt

Upstream tears flooding onward

The passage of flotsam downstream

 

To a place with a same-different sky

Where the birds speak another language

And the whales sing a foreign song

And the trees whisper secrets unknown

 

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