Albert

The fisherman speak of fish in the sea,
I think the river's where I'd rather be
Never a pause but for winters hold
When boughs are tired and reeds grow old

Whether your river does rush or meander
The water takes your heart in hand
Currents of fate have little remorse
Do big fish in small ponds know of their loss?
An eddy is as bad as a line or net
If I'd never have left, we would never have met.