A SNAKE ETCHING ITSELF IN THE LANDSCAPE

The river flows black and shallow,

turns and turns, a snake

etching itself ever deeper

in the landscape. It

goes ever on and stays

the same, black water rushing,

foaming at the rapids.

In its bottom secrets

no one seeks, ten thousand

years sinking deeper

in the soil, rocks

so slowly carried

their years as long

as those of the river short.

The river flows,

turns and turns,

and no swimmer or a fisherman

breaks those black currents

flowing, rushing past

the faces that the soil takes

and grinds the bones

like the old mill whose stones

are carved by river alien

to human eyes. Harnessed,

it broke free, the black water

turning, turning, etching

as the people come and

go on its banks, cold

in summer, blazing in winter

cold. A snake etching

itself in the landscape.

27.04.2018