The Book of the River
The still, sad music of humanity
playing in the distance
like an oboe,
the beginning of a sunless day.
The first light comes slowly,
as if it were being carried by
an old
man with a cane,
his back bent, his face
green and wrinkled like an old leaf.
Without strength or direction
he walks
out toward the river, step by step.
His hands reach out to feel the air;
it's as if they don't belong to him.
—they are so big and brown.
____ AKSHR
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