The River

The young mountain stream
Rushes about, playfully, noisily,
Skipping over the mountains
Mocking all restraint. It fights
The rocks, it makes its own way.
It is wild, natural, free and happy.
The mature maiden of the plains
Journeys through the cities,
The pilgrim towns, the villages.
Like a mother, it quenches the thirst,
It feeds, it nurtures, it nourishes.
It is when the river gets old,
And is to merge with the sea,
That it branches out all over, slowly,
As if to gather all the beauty of the land
Within itself. No one knows whether
It is sad or happy, when its journey ends.

About Abhishek

I will let the blog speak for itself...or, at times, for me. View all posts by Abhishek

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