The river moves. It does not think. It does not care.
It begins somewhere high, where the air is thin and the rocks are sharp. It does not ask why it must go. It only goes.
It cuts through the land because that is what water does. It does not ask if the land minds. The land does not answer.
It takes what it can carry. It leaves what is too heavy. Stones, branches, bones. Some things sink. Some things follow.
Men come to the river. They drink from it. They cross it. They drown in it. The river does not stop for them.
It moves on, slow in some places, fast in others. It does not look back. It does not wonder what it might have been.
At the end, it meets the sea. The sea takes it in. The river is gone. The sea does not say thank you.
Broken Author 