The waters flow, for how else could they go? Crashing seas & stirring storms, sunlit bees buzzing around flowers - swaying gently in soft breeze….
I have used up what I know, and I need some new way to show: How the power of the waters flow, and flow, and flow. Like the pressure on a poorly built damn, is to hold my disgust against such waters. As a swamp staying from clean, a fly staying to its sickly gleem, yet they cannot prevail, under clean & fresh veil.
“What a sorry sight to see”, names the all-seeing tree, “Under bark & under flower, I see maggots crawling in swagger!” “A slimy rudder, an achieving place does it try pretend to be finishing the race.” “But” riddles in soft embers gleam, “the roots draw from that stream.”
Indeed the waters flow, for where else could they go? Once course is set, predestined it has been A logic gate to some, yet truth remains to be seen. Tarry a while and tell me so, but yet water goes on — Piercing shard of snows. It groans & breaks, ring of roses as the old man’s chapter closes.
The waters must go: for Life, you cannot slow.