The ripples are not the afterthought
of a child with a pebble,
or that of fish swallowing a bug fallen on water.
They are the spirits of the river made insane
by unnatural filth.
They scramble and fall.
They gambol and crawl.
Nothing makes sense anymore.
Long ago, all they knew were fish
and shrimps and crocodiles,
grass on the banks, bamboo clumps.
Wading through to the other side
was an adventure ripe
with fairies and sprites in the mind.
There were no bridges then.
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