Ode to the Waterfall

Without a plan,
one day,
I rose early
and gave you a waterfall.
Among everything
in existence on Earth:
stones,
buildings,
carnations —
among everything
sailing through the air:
clouds,
birds —
among everything
here
on the planet:
minerals,
the dead,
there is nothing
that slips away
so smoothly.
Nothing booms with song
like a waterfall.
Open your eyes:
there it roars
like a white lioness,
shines
like a phosphorescent flower,
dreams
with each of your dreams.
It is the song
writing my song
rewarding me
with a silver shop in motion.
But it also works,
turning the wheel
of a mill,
it not only embodies
a wounded crysthanthemum,
but it also brings wheat
to its reality.
It is mother of the bread
you celebrate each day.
What I have given you,
will never be a burden,
because
what I gave you
was always yours,
the flower or the wood,
the word or walls,
food of fleeting
love, resting or burning
in our hands.
But all
I gave you,
all I give you,
all I extend to you,
will contain this secret
voice of water.
One day,
will tell you
in its own tongue
the extent of our silence.
It will roll our kisses
to earth,
to flour.
It will continue
to grind
wheat,
night,
silence,
words,
stories,
and song.