The river has a voice that does not die,
But sings its way forever through the stone
Windings of rock and current, leaf and bone,
Taking its colour from the changing sky.
We, since the bison painted in the cave
Keep marking time with art, to try to catch
A moment while we can, but though we snatch
We go down empty handed to the grave.
And such a stretch of time holds us apart:
An eyeblink to the sky, the hills, the seas,
But lost to human reach through centuries.
The bison’s there, and we can do our part.
And still the river burbles endlessly
While time runs on, twined with eternity.
24th May 2017, TGV between Paris and Nimes