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.
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