Sunlight-bokehs engaged on wave-riding.
Fishes, for chilly sunlit-lunch underneath, gather.
Mild waves from afar assemble into gentle ripples
Around mossy stones on banks there.
Tide’s tired in the midday hour,
Yet countless waves twirl,
Numerous, more so than in tide’s command,
Shoring up cargoes, sands, dusts, and ships
Gradually picking up their pace.
Weeds drunk in that trance
Above the abyss –
Roots peek at eyes tracking clocks,
And dive deep to dance
In rhythm with our hide and seek with sunny rays.
In shade ghosts walk beneath the skins,
In light Present’s lifetime gleams.
And with stranger year’s beckon
December’s mute signposts here begin
Their rusted backward countdown.
Dear, dear River, flowing for epochs,
Jingling midday suns on your back,
How will you recount your tale
Of this falling stars’ carnival
To a busy, lazy mind beside you?
Or should you rather, my lady,
Be witnessing, quietly,
Another or a dozen eons
Rolling on your liquid meditation?
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