Brooding River

Brooding River This winter saw a lot of rain in the river near the houses, still running clear and lucid, giving its soul to the ocean On the old Roman bridge, I asked the river to stop wasting its precious sweet water on the salty sea One cannot let thirsty horses drink brackish water having hauled a cart full of dead sheep up to the mountain top as offering by an idiot savant, a gift to a god that only exists in feverish minds The river hears me not, its job is to run dry during the summer for at fall be reborn. Beware of a river that has no fish! Those who haughtily laugh will be turned into frogs banks, are full of them, petrified seeing nothing. Only a princess can make them human again, but they will still retain the souls of frogs. Alas, due to hard times, the princess is a dancer in a Spanish nightclub, knows nothing about emails, and is not on Facebook.