Ancient mountains swept with snow,
where a dropp of water begins to flow,
is the birthplace of a small stream,
and something I would never dream.
Streams turn to rivers great,
that make sure not to be late,
that go towards swamps and bogs,
and they keep going into the fog.
Have you not yet reached the ocean,
where all the world is set in motion?
Your waters have rushed,
fed by the clouds' every flush.
You've left such beauty behind,
just for bogs and fog to find.
Your droplet has grown;
at me your lies are thrown.
this*...because deleting & reposting may result in multiple posts, lol.
I like the storytelling here. How the initial thought is built upon so cleverly, and with such a skilled ease. Gives the idea of something becoming greater, spiraling, accumulating. There is a quiet intensity about tis poem. Well done.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I enjoyed this poem very much. It's so easy for little white lies to become so much more than just that and i loved how you compared these lies spiraling out of control to rushing water. Good job.