Whose mists, like dragons, curl against the sky;
O thund’ring god, whose movement over time
Has gouged a mile-wide path, where seagulls fly
And trace your giant steps, each twist and turn,
Down yawning gorge to where the whirlpool boils
Beneath the dancing rapids — wild they churn,
Twisting, as round great rocks the river coils —
Why now the tears? The thousand voices sighing?
Do you not hear the reverent silence? Awe
And fear upon each frozen tongue? The dying
Exhalations of spirits, which, like straw
Before the winds, are strewn to airy silence?
You hear, you see, with pity not defiance.
Source: The author, 2001.