The river, with her sweeping bends,
Gives us pleasure like old friends
With all the character of a human face,
Etched with contours, using a touch we trace.
And as the seasons come and go,
This weathered look we come to know.
There’s no natural way to slow down time,
But to live in hope of the divine.
Occasionally coursing and sometimes slow,
As all-day pressures take their toll.
And as it ebbs down to the sea,
We return to nature to be set free.