A Walk By The Interior River

A Walk By The Interior River
From the staircase of the University library
to the meadows opening in the sunshine of April
I range over a history
lived inside,
outside of all histories that come and go.
In the few steps measured to the flow of time
I walk by a river, her silent murmur has no history
as I flow with her in these lawns I had left far behind
only to revisit in a need for rediscovering time.
This river that flows and becomes me, an interior of a shadow
inside a grove, where choice has no more relevance in its silent gorge
than a last pebble thrown , creating a ripple,
and lost, not knowing how long ago.
This river silent, self-reflective,
her history merging with all
unknown lives, lived and immersed and carried to the sea.
I may need a bridge to cross
but the river has no need for one.
She teaches me the irrelevance
of histories written, a mockery of her majestic flow.
She lives her own biography,
drenching every page with water born of some sluice that danced
in the wilderness all its own.
Here after all I know
that sound is born of silence and the river is of space too,
a space she must make
all by herself and for herself alone.
Here as I come to her shores,
paths and roads stop all of a sudden
and time passes by them
into all the places I travelled before.
Here by the shore of this interior river all I know as God
floats like a castle in the air, seeming real and intangible.
Something tells me that temples are not made by kings  and labor
of human hands
but by prayers of pilgrims
and colleges are not made by donations of potentates
but by the leap and the aura of light within.
The archways and the spacious halls
of these places of learning
where boys and girls in the prime of life
are making waves and weaving dreams
that a better world be ambled in their space of life.
A river is a river that lives and flows soundlessly,
on the pulse of giving and weaving dreams