The river’s voice

a silent river
of what was left unsaid
flows across our skin,
flows between us,
silent, invisible—
we hadn’t even seen it,
not until now.

How many generations
have silenced their tears?
withheld their fury in their throats?
overlooked the expression of tenderness?
buried their magnificent voices?

I hear the river’s quiet roar—
brimming
with stones of sorrow,
stories left untold,
memories without coordinates
enfolded in hidden currents.
But its light
still runs through our veins—
a breath of joy
entwined with resonance,
still whispering softly.
Up ahead—
a shimmering blush,
a fish tail flashing,
opens the path through deep crystalline rapids,
within the river’s endless flow.

This river
belongs to us all.
It is larger than any one of us.
It lives in our skin,
flows through our veins.
We are part of the collective memory:
each of us holds a key—
a singular polyphony,
of the rainbow
that rises from our belly,
all the colors
arching across the earth.

The ancient song
is thawing.
The waters come alive
and rise
in a song taking flight.

aaaah... aaaah...
AAAAH—

somewhere above,
the rain begins drumming
toward the earth.

Time—
eons, epochs,
centuries, decades,
this very moment—
is shaping the course of the river
in ways only the river knows.

There is no hurry.
oooooohhhhh—

only the river,
serpentine, flowing,
current upon current,
until the whole body of the river
turns to
ascending breath
once again.

 

—Lorena Wolfman (2020, 2025)