Silent waters with mobile desires,
beset with a nomadic spirit,
trapped inside the river banks,
buried in ancient catacombs,
prisoners of the quiet earth,
serving out their
temporary incarceration
with a mind to break away
and run with the rain,
to dance through the rocks
and swim to the
ends of the earth,
to be moved by
the tears of the clouds,
the liberators of the spirit,
the heroine of the skies
who oversee the
solemn faces of the still water
with their dreams
of running and dancing
and laughing and
flowing with the current.
Alas the gentle drifting,
the stirring of the stillness,
the following along
the river banks,
picking up the pace
with the undulating earth,
the union with the other waters
with the ends of the earth in sight,
the cascading down rocky cliffs,
the release of the nomadic spirit
in columns of the white waters,
the racing with a joyful heart,
the breaking out of prison,
the singing of freedom songs,
the coming to the ends of the earth
and the witnessing of the falling waters.

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Cory Garcia
8 months


Robert L. Martin
9 months

Thanx Nelson. The articule you wrote about the Virus was great. I wrote one about it also, but with abstract words and thoughts. It was called "Missiles in the Breath." That's all I can think about. Since it bothers me so much, I mind as well write about it.

Nelson D Reyes
9 months

Images gallery.
...tears of the clouds...
Into columns of white water...

Like. Thanks Robert

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