My Mother Ganga

Wet sand, red and beige,

sinking beneath my feet,

my heart bursting with joy

at the sight of her rushing by.

There she was, emerald green,

and this is the colour I like on her.

Maybe she has others,

better than green,

but them I have not yet seen.

I stand at the edge

of the roaring river,

speechless, looking

into the darkness

that was coming in slowly,

swallowing the last daylight.

And I saw the mountains

turn silent and gloomy,

stifling their primal cry,

their inky silhouettes

vanishing into the night sky.

My Mother Ganga.

To her,

I will always be

a child.