The River

The river flows.

The waters are tamed by men, bound by dams and enslaved to work on wheels. Human structures weaken over time and the tireless pounding of freedom. The winter-melting river bombards the walls with chunks of rock and ice. It falls, flooding mills and breweries.

People despair, fall on their knees and beg God for mercy. It becomes an accursed forbidden place, its evil stories passed on to succeeding generations, the original corrupted through the passage of such time.

But no matter, for none venture there now, on the banks of the river.


The river flows.

Somewhere else, in a peaceful downstream perhaps, winter-weary travelers seek the waters of spring. They come upon this stream, its waters flooded with mead and sun-dried grain basking on its banks.

People rejoice, kneel and thank the Almighty for this miracle. It becomes a holy place of worship and draws the coming generations from far and wide, the story of its founding falsely flowering through the passage of such time.

But no matter, for many come there now, and make a home on the banks of the river.

And so, places are made and undone, on the banks of the same stream.


Feb 28 2008