Contemplations of My Time with the River

I am more of a rough writer. I scratch a lot of poems in minutes and forget them later. Whenever I sit to write I just want to get it done faster — so most of my writing turns out raw and casual.

This time I’m trying to write by taking my time and making improvements. Hope I don’t get a mood swing and rush it in the next 5 minutes.

I sit by the river,
I hear the sounds of the axe nearby,
Cutting woods into pieces,
I turn my head to the left,
See a farmer, struggling to cut logs for firewood,
Sitting beside are their children, waiting,
To carry logs and take home.
That is how beautiful the piece of wood is for them,
No food is going to be cooked in their home if they do not have that firewood.

I sit by the river,
Watching the old man slice the firewood.
I turn to the right, face straight,
See those currents in water, these big stones,
Crafted, sliced by soft water, by hitting it a million times,
I want to jump there and feel the coldness of water,
But sad — I cannot swim,
I am just meant to sit here and stare at the water,
Never to dive, just to encounter the actions live.

No, I cannot stay here anymore, the breeze hitting my lower naked legs,
My soul shivers, I look around,
The old man is gone with the firewood,
The sunset is about to happen,
I see around, I know where I need to reach,
Which way I need to go, but I still feel lost,
I know I can reach there soon but still I feel like not moving,
I feel cold but still I want to be shattered by this breeze.
I want to stay, but still want to get lost in those river waves.
Should I stay here forever, or leave for working and work it,
like the farmer chopped the firewood and maybe now is cooking
the fruits of his hard work,
Thinking what to do tomorrow,
With no questions of life and dreamland,
Just the Present and its deeds.

Recovered from my old blog (2020–2021) via the Wayback Machine.