The Word-Fish Stream

Far, far away, where little word-hills rise,
In lands of vowels and consonants, under the skies,
The fish-texts drift. No lips can make them speak.
They bloom from water, clear, cold and meek.

They weave through gills. They circle, swoop, and sway,
With tiny bubbles dancing on their way.
At times they shine with soft, emerald-green light,
With smoky sparks that glimmer through the night.

They catch the shades their misty kin once knew
And flash them back in trembling silver-blue.
But no one hears the tales they softly tell,
Nor what they whisper in their secret vale.

01.12.2025