The river
Keeps flowing,
Its water
Has no rest,
From being
In that state,
But when that water
Empties into a lake,
Or the ocean,
It learns,
Almost at once,
To cease motion
That carries it forward;
Its movements then,
Are confined within,
The mellow ripple,
Or the tumultuous wave –
Neither ever,
Progressing ahead
For miles on end.

Water holds no memory,
Or if it does,
It is as much at peace,
Within the depths
Of the boundless sea,
Or the gurgling mirth,
Of the mischievous stream.

Perhaps the key
To lasting peace,
Is to let free,
Every vestige,
Of memory –
Whether painful,
Or abounding in beauty.

Image Credit: Photo by Sergei Gussev on StockSnap