The river ponders gravely with a circling weight,
neutral greys shuffling folder-buff shadowing
across too solid flesh, pending animation,
persona waiting ritual formulation,
an empty vessel paused, before breath’s hallowing
pumps up calcified lungs, cold blood to activate.
Shoulder strap slipped astray exposing modest breast,
her mannequin expression unmans interest.
Dispassionate naiad, source of the river’s spate,
urn impartially upturned in solemn pouring,
flowing torpidly with such careless cunctation,
heedless of her waters’ final destination,
whether it gives or takes life on its journeying,
coursing gravely onwards forever circling fate.
La source/The Spring
Pablo Picasso, 1921