The river

โ€œI do not know much about gods; but I think that the river
Is a strong brown godโ€”sullen, untamed and intractable,
Patient to some degree, at first recognised as a frontier;
Useful, untrustworthy, as a conveyor of commerce;
Then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges.โ€
-T.S. Eliot, The Dry Salvages

The turquoise flow winds down underneath the towering cliffs.

Delicately licking the glossy rocks.

Down the carved curve, among the hard stones and soft trees, its temper peaks to a heated thrash.

Froth forms in its mouth, its liquid body surging down the pull of the earth.

Pounding and clobbering.

Tangling and untangling.

 

And my untempered mind, wildly imagines the sound of crashing bones if my body was thrown into the chaos of the river.

Uncontrollable contortions to the angry dance of the water.

Once peacefully gurgling, now cruelly hammering with immeasurable force.

Helpless body, being torn into pieces. Immeasurable pain.

 

The raging potentiality of the river is unsettling.

Perhaps because my grandmother lost her brotherโ€™s body in a river.

His life swallowed up by the twisting beast.

 

The river is still beautiful.

Because life is beautiful.

And death is void of life.

But not void of beauty.

Do you have any uninvited thoughts similar to this? Or am I in possession of a disturbed mind?

 

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