A joy as pure rose as the water which fell,
that whistling bird whose echoes floated into me,
a gently lounging butterfly in the breeze,
and the hypnotic rhythm of the waterfall.
The tiny gurgling streams joining hands with their louder elders,
stitching the green fabric like silver glistening threads would;
the rickety yet sturdy bus carrying our brittle selves,
the falls turning adults into kids.
The clouds opening, the rains pouring,
the falling water, seemingly powerful enough to destroy Matter,
the rocks holding their place and flinging the water away, not budging,
a spectacular perpetual battle.
The sky at its dullest gray but never feeling so,
we baby stepped our way towards the destination,
through soil which looked squeezed out and had become a water body.
The ‘I’ in me humbled by the hills, silenced by the roar of water,
the illusion of control washed away by showers of rain.
Bred and surviving on flat lands,
the mighty showcase of gravity lifted my spirits,
defying a stagnating inertia and a slow-but-certain fall,
an endless torrent of water breaking an endless spiral of thoughts.