In the Beck

 There is a fish, that quivers in the pool,
itself a shadow, but its shadow, clear.

Catch it again and again, it still is there.


Against the flowing stream, its life keeps pace
with death - the impulse and the flash of grace
hiding in its stillness, moves to be motionless.


No net will hold it - always it will return
Where the ripples settle, and the sand -
It lives unmoved, equated with the stream,
As flowers are fit for air, man for his dream.

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