Prayer Of The Hours (The River's Song)

If I were a nature poet,
I would write this river a song.
But I am a poet of dreams
I can merely say to it: dear river, flow on.

We recited the prayer of the hours while Paris slept,
and the brothers on the mountain ate.
While the sun splayed gold on this still country.

We kept the hours with benevolent souls,
though some eyes in the circle were darker than crows.
But they knew it was not the hour for their savagery.

And darling it was like magic,
bittersweet faith. That toss and catch
rhythm beating while the boy on the porch, wept.

But the river never ceased it's flow.

For those begotten notes struck passions
rivers can easily forgo, they answer to a different power.

And so they disregard the passing hours.