Water is the earth’s first prayer,
a hymn whispered before sound was born,
a silver breath between creation and silence,
the pulse that keeps the world from forgetting itself.
It moves like mercy,
soft, unassuming, yet it shapes the unshapable,
wearing down mountains with the patience of time,
cradling roots like a mother who never sleeps.
When I drink it,
it feels like swallowing light,
as if the heavens melted into clarity,
as if angels bled into rivers just to keep us alive.
Every drop is a memory of beginnings,
the tears of stars that cooled into oceans,
the mirror in which the sky rediscovers its face.
Without it, the world is a throat gone dry from prayer,
a heart too tired to beat again.
We think we own it,
bottle it, waste it, trade it for comfort,
but water is no servant, it is a god in disguise,
flowing through us, reminding us we are borrowed breath.
It teaches us humility,
to bend, to fall, to rise again as mist,
to vanish and return,
to be everywhere and still unseen.
Water is the soul’s reflection,
a truth too fluid to be held,
the reminder that life is not meant to be grasped,
only touched, cherished, and let flow.
For when the rivers stop singing,
the world will not burn,
it will simply stop remembering
how to live.
November, 2025
