The smallest drops are swirling in cold air.
The whitish veil has covered the flood-land.
September's dozing, wrapping in the gas cloth.
Everything's mute at the wet river banks.
And the fast brook has slowed down its rash current.
It's like a tar, which Gods spilled from the sky.
The liquid's shining, overcoming grass stems.
The river takes new water, carrying down.
The every small drop of the new water
makes this frail river stronger mile to mile.
The smallest thing creates something enormous,
striking by that experienced mind.
The river's like a snake from an old fairy:
the speechless monster, killing in its hug.
The slowed down liquid looks completely safe now,
but old deep water waits for preys to gulp.
by Thea Ariss
09.09.2026
The smallest drops are swirling in cold air
© Copyright: Тея Арис, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126090907272
Свидетельство о публикации №126090907272
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