Everything was white, everywhere I looked
I could see snow,
Every now and then a small flake came
whirling and twirling down,
Every time I had been at the creek its surroundings were
either green or brown, in spring, summer,
winter or autumn.
Never had I seen it in white, sparkling white
like a blue sky in summer,
Everything the same,
Except from the little creek….
Rushing, glittering water,
reflected rays of light,
light which tickled my eyes with the sweetness
of a tiny star.
The water flowed in an almost soundless rhythm…
But, when one listened carefully they’d hear it stream,
It gently touched the shores of the little creek
like the birds which were whispering
their wonderful serenade in my ears
I sat down beside the creek,
next to a small weir, not white at all,
a weir consistent of small branches,
The water whipped away every whirling flake
which landed on the small weir,
water which was wrestling to step over it,
wishing it had feet to break the resistance,
the weir was strong,
too strong to be beaten
by the little slack brook
even though the resistance was mighty,
continuously a small flow escaped,
it escaped from the spell of the water-withholding grip.
Should I help the poor piddling thing?
Should I condemn the weir?
Or…
Should I stay paralyzed by the bewitching sound of the struggle?
Too fascinating to break,
break the sound of nature,
nature with its visualizing power,
power to seduce everyone towards its beauty,
beauty as never seen before
Never destroy such thing,
such power, such beauty,
only look and listen,
eyes and ears,
no human-hands involved in this game,
listen to the sweetness,
look to the paralyzing white,
but don’t trouble the bittersweet nature;
for it will turn to a scornful and piercingly cold place
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