I am often confronted by a feeling
Of lack of authenticity, in this river,
Of not feeling like a subject, spurious
Against mountains that sit in the far
With river waters beating on my ears.

I am words from vaporous thoughts,
A prose-poem thought in dark nooks
Of the mind, mining word after word.

The mountains belong to the earth.
I, waving in breeze, am a mere baby
A cry-baby in quick mountain wind,
Flying words against its rock solidity
In its flowing wind and night silence.


The mountains are authentic in space
With river about me, in daily ripples.
They had come here much before me
With the waters from skies, daily sun.
I exist here in the river, as a thought
A passing thought of a real mountain,
A thought in river, a temporary rock.


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