They Are Rivers
We are time. We are the much renowned
saying of Heraclitus the Obscure.
We are water, not diamonds that endure;
what loses its way, not what holds its ground.
We are that Greek who sees himself in the stream;
we are the stream. His brief reflection shimmers
in the water which is made of shimmering mirrors,
in the dark glass that shimmers like a flame.
We are the stream, predestinate and vain,
heading down to the sea pursued by shadows.
Everything said goodbye, everything goes.
Memory no longer mints its coin.
And nevertheless there is something that remains,
and nevertheless there is something that complains.
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