I am the rock, and the river
of time moves over me.
I am still, and things pass—
the view only appears the same
through the rippled mirror above.
Time moves, one way, taking parts
of me while smoothing my roughness.
I am the water, moving over the rock.
As I move over what seems eternal,
I observe and remember:
turns, noisy and shallow, and the quiet depths
all feel familiar.
Everything moves, and even my reflection
isn’t truly me.
Stillness is an illusion. Do you ever see
a river at rest? An ocean?
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