Whose river this is I do not know,
Wandering through capital,
Yet unhurried by the tide,
Not bothered by high taxes,
Nor when interest rates will slide.
Th’incessant patter of the rain,
Which crumples suits,
And washes words from papers,
Swells his peaceful progress,
Whilst human traffic tapers.
The rising of the moon,
Which sets the city sleeping,
Casts a glow upon his way,
And slowly snaking with the flow,
Not begging for the day.
And so I stand upon the bridge,
No longer marching to the clock.
Instead I close my weary eyes and fly,
Upon that silent river,
And dream that Time has passed me by.
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