Cross the River
It’s a short walk to the river
From the village of my birth,
From the place of my conception
And my home, for what it’s worth.
Just a short walk made each morning,
A tradition that survives,
As my gently lowing cattle
Sing the purpose of their lives.
I could blame it on a promise
Worth a basketful of salt,
But the path I had to travel
Wasn’t anybody’s fault.
Let the children chase the dustman
Till the season of the flood.
I may wear the mask of wisdom,
But I’m only flesh and blood.
There’s a clearing in the forest
Where the dogs can smell the rain,
Where they bark like so much thunder
At the twilight’s dimming flame.
From my bed of leaves and branches
I shall reach up toward the sky
And I’ll drag the sun down with me
In the breath before I die.
Cross the river.
Let me rest beneath the trees
Across the river
Where the spirits of our fathers
Keep their hearts.
When one dream ends,
Another starts.
Copyright © Michael Kalavik | Year Posted 2021
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