and so the swan glides on. 

and the water molten around her. 

the carousel days wander lonely, meaningless clouds.

her neck, so slender and linen, can't turn to stare at the onwards.

at the rounding of the riverbanks, grass grows taller than time,

swaying in the cold air, breathing with the beating of her wings.

people stand on the mudded edge, cooing.

her eyes can see their watery complextions.