The mountains, they loom over me,
flush with stone, thick with tree,
a tiny trickle, a thin blue vein,
I push freely through their domain.

As I flow, my banks grow wide,
the mountains beckon me to their side,
but those mountains are so far apart,
each appealing to my heart.

I swirl and pour, froth and churn,
I seek new lessons, seek to learn.
I gush through deltas, out to sea,
perhaps in vastness I'll be free.

As each wave o'er the beach does break,
the mountains watch, tremble, quake.
They both call out that I should show,
they long to guide, change my flow.

I am finally torn, my purpose drawn,
from crash, to spray, to mist at dawn,
transcending worry, escaping care,
becoming one with salty air.

Could this be it? Finally free?
Drifting softly with the breeze?
I drift up high to visit peaks,
terrified to see mountains sad and bleak.

Too heavy, now, to further fly,
tears slide openly, with rain I cry.
Upon each rocky face my tears do bring
shouts of joy, the mountains sing!

Penned by my hand on the 12th of Severin, in the year 408 MA.