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Rushing, crashing, trickling—
Flowing down mountainsides.
Lulling, whirling, singing—
Racing into valleys.
An old sage and pupil
Sauntered by a river.
The forests were lightless;
The mountains were soundless.
“Listen closely,” said the
Master to his pupil.
“These streamlets and rivers
Make their way everywhere.”
They listened as they climbed—
Thinking, pausing, wondering.
Silence flooded the caves—
Whirling, whistling, calling.
“These streams flow everywhere,”
Said the sage—“Can you hear?”
David Gosselin is a poet, researcher, and translator in Montreal, Canada. He is the Editor-in-Chief of The Chained Muse. His epic poem in iambic blank verse, Athena, appears in the latest issue of New Lyre Magazine.
But David they don't; they never flow upwards. Or am I being too pedantic? (As for being too public who cares? A poet's words, being always truthful, must be allowed to flow everywhere.) And in fact, now I come to think of it, they do flow upwards: in the form of transpiration.
Now I'd like to ask you a pertinent question (though it might come across as somewhat impertinent): what is the relationship between transpiration and inspiration?