Estuarine (a cento)

The thinning out of conscious 

pilgrims passing by me

in the adjacent jungle, 

there are plentiful of pine trees

And thefts from satellites and rings 

spinning endlessly at night,

the folk who live in 

the waves call out to me

held out in promise 

to the Fish of Time.

Farewell, river 

that made life green

vacant now of flowers 

and grapes and crafts

the fall of dropping water 

wears away the stone.

Clouds will sail 

and winds will blow

Opening wide the distances

Without any in betweens.