Image:  Gomathi Mohan

Intro: As one sits in the icy waters, watching the mighty Ganges, gurgling and splashing, flowing and bending for miles on end, a poem takes shape. 


Flowing, coalescing, glissading from a cascade,
Directing centuries of trade,
Lifeline on which civilizations operate;

A liquid testimony that’s seen innumerable seasons pass by,
From freezing ice to being barren and dry,
As cones turn to trees reaching the sky;

From ground to skies, a story on its own,
East to west, on every timezone,
A tedious task, shaping every pebble and stone;

The elixir of life that cuts through rocks,
The bird dips it’s beak on a summer equinox,
Quenches it’s thirst, watched by the shepard’s flocks;

The river ripples, babbling and bright,
Gushing and rushing out of sight,
Undermining even the mountain’s might;

Meanders its way through any terrain,
Its refreshing waters humming a refrain;
Does it ever bruise itself, get hurt or in pain?

We may never know what a river goes through,
Stoically moves towards the sea without much ado;
Silently since ages awake, having no one to prove to.

Behold the river – bound by a duty,
Might as we try to tarnish it’s beauty,
Yet, selflessly it keeps flowing in all earnesty.

© Gomathi 2023
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my first poem – 8 years old – was about Ganges
well written, with sensitive power and control over word choices.

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