By the River Piedra, I sat down and wept. There is a legend that everything that falls into the water of this river - leaves, insects, the feathers of birds - is transformed into the rocks that make the riverbed. If only I could tear out my heart and hurl it into the current, then my pain and longing would be over, and I could finally forget.
Perhaps love makes us old before our time - or young, if youth has passed. But how can I not recall those moments?
That is why I write -- to try to turn sadness into longing, solitude into remembrance.
So that when I finish telling myself the story, I can toss it into the Piedra. Only then - in the words of one of the saints - will the water extinguish what the flames have written."
Now, my story...
There I was.
Lamenting in my own River Piedra
Mourning for the transformation
of love into loss,
I, too, have written my tale.
I, too, have let my tears run me dry.
Let the poignant remnants of reminiscences be carried away by the current.
Let the water cleanse me of the hurt, pain and regret.
For by the River Piedra,
By the River Piedra, I sat down and wept.