The Flow of Choice

Just as the brook will flow into the river's bed,
So too the river toward the sea is led.
The little brook can never conquer streams,
Nor can the river tame the ocean's dreams.

We do not choose the river in the brook below,
Only the chosen are allowed to flow.
We do not choose the ocean in the river's grace,
Only the chosen find that boundless place.

It is not we who choose what comes to be,
We are but chosen by destiny.

We cannot choose the springtime when it starts,
Nor pick the winter waiting in our hearts.
As every season gives another birth,
Death comes unbidden to this quiet earth.
We never choose the seasons or our end,
To higher wills our mortal paths must bend.

The holy words upon the sacred page
Are not just read by choice from age to age.
By hands divine, our eyes are gently led
To see the truth by which our souls are fed.

Why is this life so hard? You softly cry—
It is not you who chose the reasons why.
The hardship chose you in its own embrace,
To leave its shadow on your weary face.
Why is this life so full of joy and bliss?
It is not you who chose a gift like this.
The happiness has chosen you instead,
To bloom like sunlight where your feet are tread.

The other is no hell, but blessed grace—
Without another, there is time nor space.
The solitary flower on the distant hill must fade,
While flowers side by side bloom bright and unafraid.

Then is there truly no free will of man?
It lives and breathes within the master plan.

The swift and restless freedom where the streamlet rolls,
The calm and patient leisure of the river's souls,
The majestic freedom where the ocean waves arise—
Yet even these free wills are bound beneath the skies.
For brook and river, ocean vast and free,
Are separate vessels of a separate destiny!
Copyright © | Year Posted 2026

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