They say rivers begin from mountains,

Where snowmelt spills like secrets told

To stone and root, to winds grown bold —

A drop first, then a rushing sound,

A voice that finds its path to the ground.

 

But I have walked beyond the springs,

Past glaciers’ edge and eagle’s wings,

To ask the silence where it starts —

Not just the course, but the heart of hearts.

 

Does it begin in falling rain,

Or in the clouds that dream of pain?

Or deeper still—in thirst, in need,

In earth’s first ache, the seed of speed?

 

Perhaps the river starts in me,

In longing for what’s yet to be,

A flow that carves both rock and soul,

Forever seeking to be whole.

 

It winds through the chambers of my chest,

Stirring the places never at rest,

Fed by dreams I dare not name,

And griefs that burn without a flame.

 

It gathers strength from every scar,

Each hope deferred, each guiding star,

And carries all I cannot speak —

The strong, the silent, and the weak.

 

No map can trace this inward stream,

It moves between the seen and the dream,

An ancient pulse beneath my skin,

The place where all my truths begin.