So, how did He make the world?
How did He make the coffee-coloured cow,
the porcelain-white bird?
How did He make the river?
I mean, this river —
the one that is nearly a mile across,
the one that is carrying small islands of grass
and water hyacinth endlessly down at the pace
of midnight taxis,
that travels profoundly as though just beneath the surface
something huge and alive wakes into and out of sleep,
that hangs along the bank here and there
gouts of foam like an old man’s beard.
Now it is reflecting the sky,
the stars bathing in its depths, quivering in its eddies.
Now it is reflecting the moon, stretching her,
breaking her into bits, and seems to want to ferry her away.
Perhaps we are not meant to know.
Perhaps He only desires for us to know
that it flows into a great river, from the great river
to the sea, rises into vapour, falls as rain,
so that the water flowing in front of me is
the same water running before I was born and will be
the same water long after I am gone.


  1. Very beautiful.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you so much. Happy you liked it. 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

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