Poetry

The river winds, a serpent's path, Through earth’s green skin, its ancient wrath. An anaconda, water-born, Where twists of life and death are sworn.
Its tail lies where the world is still, Among the roots, the shadowed hill. Its mighty coils, with liquid grace, Become a head where waters race.
Scales of rapids, white and wild, A flow of secrets, nature’s child. Its undulating, mirrored form, Both calm embrace and raging storm.
Shed skin, a veil the ages shed, Time’s illusion, old made dead. It slips from age, from dust and bone, Rebirth, the river’s undertone.
A healer’s touch, a hunter’s strike, Light and shadow, day and night. The serpent—veil and truth entwined— The pulse of life, the endless bind.
For in its coils the spirits weave, A thread of dark, a dawn to cleave. The river-serpent, mystic guide, To worlds where seen and unseen glide.