Millions come and millions go <br />over the bridge which underneath <br />that lone river does flow.. <br /> <br />No one knows from where comes she <br />and till where does she go <br />attention devoid yet full of pride <br />for all these years her mild waves did glide. <br /> <br />And woods i see as densest be <br />do drench their roots for glee <br />and to her left the vast grey plains lie <br />strewn with her wealth like an enormous pie.. <br /> <br />For ages has she quenched every race <br />by her bosoms milk with such a grace <br />and like a mother she never discriminates <br />among whites or blacks or inferiors or greats.. <br /> <br />And you cannot find even a trace <br />of regret on her transparent face <br />that unrecognized prophet of secularity though <br />has been deprived of a single bow... <br />But i pay this ode to you O dear <br />in lieu of your debt that all races bear....<br /><br />prashant shaurya<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-tale-of-the-archaic-river/
