Tuesday, April 16, 2019

William Wordsworth Goes to Tamarind Island

These Koh Garos fjords are speechless
Therefore I have no words,
But the river so quietly discourses,
Every moment a new eye of light,
A different reverberation of idea.

The vines of rock that hang below
Echo with the river's glow,
And in their tortured edges
Are the water's kneading hands.

How could this green of mangrove
Open so quickly to ocean?
The voice that always roars about the wilderness
Though it knows nothing of what it is.