Highland Waterfall
A poem.
A poem.
The waterfall roars among the valley,
white waters almost crystallized by foaming bubbles.
Fish scurry against the tides,
rocks slime after a long embrace with water.
The sun shoots its rays
into this impossible meadow.
Down the barren stone tower,
through the craggy, coarse cliffs,
refining, polishing the necessary features
with vehement force,
the white, weighty water races,
crashing into a wasted bank.
While splintered stone,
scattered about the course,
surges towards the fringe
of the river road,
latched to the rock-ridden surface,
fighting the undertow.
As the water plunges
down the waterfall,
a bleak, desolate cavern
hides behind
the majestic facade.
A rainbow sparkles in the spume.
