Turn the pages of a book 
About the fish that lived in the river of 
Childhood, long ago or merely 
Yesterday in the fleeting mystery 
Of each life, nearer end than beginning.
 
River always beginning 
In the enigma of remembering 
Childhood—flowing fast as a boy 
Trying in vain to keep pace with the waters, 
So long ago, except in memory.
  
The fish are always the same, 
Only the human story 
Insists on infinite variations
While somehow remaining the same.