The water used to flow freely
as blowing breezes,
now interrupted, it stutters,
stops, pools.
An oxbow lake, though cut off
from its parent, may nonetheless
have its own currents,
still flows.
Broken, I might be -
we all are -
broken in, broken down, broken up.
Yet we continue, we fools.
I am nevertheless a river
with my own eddies and tides
(though changed from her former self,
she flows).
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