Beneath the hush of a moonlit trail,
as silent and mobile as the air so frail.
Clay pores mingle with silt and fern,
ripples bend where her soft rims turn.
A voice stirs from the sleeping reeds,
bludgeoned still by her ancient needs.
An anklet worn deep in her throat,
like memory sealed in a sunken note.
Hands reach forth — coarse and slow —
fingers graze a coin, a fleeting glow.
The water answers with a muted sigh,
drawing them both in a greedy lie.
Changing her mind, she charts her route,
stealing lives while guarding her loot.
Some say spirits, others say more,
partly a myth, mysterious at the core.