Does the water demand where to flow?

Should I turn here, there, or onward go? 

It asks not why, how fast or how slow 

For its path it knows it does not know

It dreams it’s a leaf or melting snow 

Or clear sky with clouds on its tableaux

Or silence on a highland plateau 

Or a waning moon or dusk’s soft glow

Its wants, its will — all it must forego

A self naught but a sun-filled shadow

In whatever shines of joy and woe

For then, not far, only a stone’s throw 

Lush gardens under which rivers flow

Each course made one, by One, long ago