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“How the Freshwater Flows The river runs through me, for the burst of rain from clouds atop, fell to the rivers that rushed to the sea. In it, was the dying of grief. How the clouds of torment die, so the river can rush! So, I float as the clouds of dark to break and become the flow of water. The waters of salt, now they are; the fresh water after rain. So I become the mouth of a river in a quiet murmur to the sea. The stories buried in my depths, I give out to the world, where nothing remains unremembered.” — Jayita Bhattacharjee
How the Freshwater Flows
The river runs through me,
for the burst of rain from clouds atop,
fell to the rivers that rushed to the sea.
In it, was the dying of grief.
How the clouds of torment die, so the river can rush!
So, I float as the clouds of dark
to break and become the flow of water.
The waters of salt, now they are;
the fresh water after rain.
So I become the mouth of a river
in a quiet murmur to the sea.
The stories buried in my depths,
I give out to the world,
where nothing remains unremembered.