Downstream
The river flows to the sea,
I move with the river,
My end shall be in the mud with the debris,
Covered, buried, forgotten.
At first I don't know this,
I know only the river,
It is warm and comfortable,
It lulls me to sleep,
And while I sleep I move,
Downstream.
I don't notice the filth in the river,
It covers me and all that is around me equally,
What is to notice?
It is the natural state of things.
Downstream.
The further I go the more filthy the water is,
But I do not notice.
It is the natural state of things.
Downstream.
That's odd. There is a man, fighting.
Fighting against my comfortable river.
He struggles against my river,
He fights against my river!
Why won't he just go,
Downstream?
What are you doing? I ask.
You can't fight against the river, you know.
You must go,
Downstream.
The Pilgrim
He pauses beside me.
He looks just like me.
What are you doing? I ask.
The mud is pulling me down, he says.
I have come from,
Downstream.
Yes,
But it is warm,
And comfortable,
And everyone goes,
Downstream.
No,
Not everyone, he says, goes
Downstream.
The water is better, he says,
And more refreshing,
Upstream.
But you are tired and worn,
In your fight.
Isn't it better to go,
Downstream?
No.
I have been Downstream,
I will not stay there.
The water is better here,
Than where I was,
And is better yet,
Upstream.
But I was further Upstream,
I protest.
I didn't notice,
It was better there.
You have mud in your eyes, he says,
And cannot see,
But I see better water,
Upstream.
I see you clearly,
I have no mud in my eyes!
You are a fool to fight,
Upstream.
I have salve for your eyes, he says,
That you might see,
The better water that is,
Upstream.
I must be going now, he says,
The choice is yours,
Will you, or,
Won't you come,
Upstream?
I will come with you,
Though I can't swim as well as you.
Will you help me?
Yes.
But first I must
Open your eyes.
Yes, please,
I want to see,
The better water that is,
Upstream.
The Source
He was right,
Though the fight was hard.
The mud is gone,
The water clear,
As we near,
The Source.
Now I see it,
Pure and clean,
Not like the river,
Where I had been.
Had not the pilgrim,
Seen my plight,
I would have struggled,
With all my might,
Struggled and died,
Deep in the mud.
Copyright, Bob Moore, 1999
The river flows to the sea,
I move with the river,
My end shall be in the mud with the debris,
Covered, buried, forgotten.
At first I don't know this,
I know only the river,
It is warm and comfortable,
It lulls me to sleep,
And while I sleep I move,
Downstream.
I don't notice the filth in the river,
It covers me and all that is around me equally,
What is to notice?
It is the natural state of things.
Downstream.
The further I go the more filthy the water is,
But I do not notice.
It is the natural state of things.
Downstream.
That's odd. There is a man, fighting.
Fighting against my comfortable river.
He struggles against my river,
He fights against my river!
Why won't he just go,
Downstream?
What are you doing? I ask.
You can't fight against the river, you know.
You must go,
Downstream.
The Pilgrim
He pauses beside me.
He looks just like me.
What are you doing? I ask.
The mud is pulling me down, he says.
I have come from,
Downstream.
Yes,
But it is warm,
And comfortable,
And everyone goes,
Downstream.
No,
Not everyone, he says, goes
Downstream.
The water is better, he says,
And more refreshing,
Upstream.
But you are tired and worn,
In your fight.
Isn't it better to go,
Downstream?
No.
I have been Downstream,
I will not stay there.
The water is better here,
Than where I was,
And is better yet,
Upstream.
But I was further Upstream,
I protest.
I didn't notice,
It was better there.
You have mud in your eyes, he says,
And cannot see,
But I see better water,
Upstream.
I see you clearly,
I have no mud in my eyes!
You are a fool to fight,
Upstream.
I have salve for your eyes, he says,
That you might see,
The better water that is,
Upstream.
I must be going now, he says,
The choice is yours,
Will you, or,
Won't you come,
Upstream?
I will come with you,
Though I can't swim as well as you.
Will you help me?
Yes.
But first I must
Open your eyes.
Yes, please,
I want to see,
The better water that is,
Upstream.
The Source
He was right,
Though the fight was hard.
The mud is gone,
The water clear,
As we near,
The Source.
Now I see it,
Pure and clean,
Not like the river,
Where I had been.
Had not the pilgrim,
Seen my plight,
I would have struggled,
With all my might,
Struggled and died,
Deep in the mud.
Copyright, Bob Moore, 1999
