Stream
Pure is the river that runs before me:
clean as a whistle, shiny as the sun.
But before I catch up the latter is gone.
Now don't get me wrong,
I would love to swim at night -
if it weren't so dark and the morning so nigh.
If I could just rinse the remainders of the day
I would be anew.
Instead I choose to dirtily face another monsoon.
And when the sun briefly evades the clouds,
I think about the glistering of the sun
and know that the river won't tomorrow be gone.













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