Smooth stones of tan and grey,
Are all that's left,
Of where the river once lay.
The green pines and plush moss,
Don't seem bothered,
By the watery loss.
Instead as I walk the rocky bed,
They seem patient,
Knowing the river will be fed.
A month later and a rapid is there,
Rushing, roaring,
Hiding the stones that were bare.
Patience will teach you to wait,
Desire to make you reach higher,
For nothing ever comes too late.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem