The rivers run red
Over a white ocean
Glazed in liquid salt.
The streams surge
Against their smooth banks
And flood over the black
Cat tails that bat to
And fro. And the waters
Are pale and stagnant,
Drained of their hot-blooded
Hue. One would never know
The tumult and strife
At the river’s head. “Nothing more
Than rain,” they’d say.
Nothing more.
He Who Wanders 