I am a lake
where tress have fallen into, with
sunken ships, weathered stones
and bloated turtles.

I am not a river.
Still, inundated and pregnant
of the stems decaying, the woods chipping
and1000 pebbles.

Where is my leaf boat?
Can it swim here?
I need a breath of wind
to shape some motion.

And in my melancholic stirring, I dream,
there is possibly a shepherd
behind this horizon.
Tending his herd
and drifting further away from me.

Can you tell him a story,
about a story of a lake,
laying behind the black mountains
he turned away from?

And can you tell him this lake’s story,
How the trees fell into my belly,
Ships who challenged the storms,
Stones that people threw at me
And the turtles, my poor turtle
Who carried scorpions on her back
And they stung her.

Friends, can you tell him that
his sheeps could drink from me.
And maybe one of the dead leaves
could turn into a boat.

Ps: the poem or the note feels incomplete in accordance with the lake’s curtailed feelings.