For ages, lying barren in
The sun, the Land repines, forlorn.
Beyond his view, within steep banks,
The River flows serenely on,
Caring not that Land may ache and yearn
For living water’s churning force.

Then comes the cold, and now the Land
Can hear no more the sounds of joy
The rushing River sang; for now
The flow has stopped, congealed to ice;
The warmth that was becomes a dream
Of distant past but dimly grasped.

Then warmth returns. The River stirs
And breaks the ice with creaks and snaps
The Land can barely hear and feel.
But these faint sounds bestir a hope
That warms the Land, reminds him of
A distant time of love and joy.

As broken ice is washed away
And snows on distant mountains melt
To trickle down to River’s course,
The River flows with greater force;
Her song swells forth so sure and strong--
She calls the Land to wait for her.

And now the Land can feel the pulse
That beats throughout the River’s song.
His heart is roused, his yearning grows
Until he throbs in time with her:
“Oh come, Beloved, wash away
The salt and stains that mar my soul.”

As if in answer to this plea
The River bursts her banks and floods
Her surging waters o’er the Land
Whose thirst for her can ne’er be quenched;
Now in the River’s roiling hold,
The Land is joyously enthralled.

The Land and River fiercely merge--
They press against each other now
So cruelly that their boundaries burst;
No longer can they surely say
The Land ends here, the River there;
As one they flow together at last.

But now the River’s passion ebbs.
Her waters fall back to the banks
That keep her from her lover’s grasp.
The Land, now drying, feels the hold
Of barrenness anew; he weeps
And begs his Love to come...

Again...