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- The seconds tick slowly by, each one into the next,
- Bringing in another wave, with seeming no effect.
- But seconds turn to hours, and hours turn to days,
- Then weeks, and months, and years go by, and time does get its way.
- The strongest stone, erect and sure, so firmly on the shore
- Starts losing once the first wave hits—won’t ever win the war.
- Those waves pound on, day in and out, unstopped by human hand;
- That rock, so sound and true, becomes a beach of conquered sand.
- The water starts—just one small drop—down the mountain side.
- Joining with some others now, a trickle starts to glide.
- It forges on, ’round roots and rocks, push grains and specks aside.
- Leaves smooth and easy trails behind for coming drops as guides.
- As time goes on—the years crawl by—that trickle takes no rest.
- It carved a scar so long and deep upon the mountain’s breast.
- That trickle was a brook one day, a creek, and then a stream.
- And now a river it’s become, a mighty force it seems.
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