When I was young, I was fresh and vibrant. I splashed and tumbled, frolicked merrily among the reeds and rushes, foamed on the mosses, and tripped gaily over even the very sharpest rocks in my path.I was new and strong and unstoppable. Mountains became valleys under my ceaseless pressure. Nothing could sway my course. And so I ran on for some time, dancing, playing, bubbling, frothing, cool, crisp, and fresh.
But I began to age. And I began to get tired. And I feared losing my power. But I slowed anyway. I was so tired it wasn't to be helped. I no longer had the energy to play and dance, to grab a stick and twirl it, then rush it along with me, then jab it in fun at the rocks who stood blocking my path. All I could do was rush onward.
But even without my supreme efforts to crush rocks and reeds, even lacking the energy to play, I was still powerful. Didn't the reeds still bow before me? Weren't the rocks still worn smooth and round? And so I ran swiftly on.
But I began to grow tired after some time had passed. The rocks no longer rounded their edges in respect to my power, and I had slowed to such an extent as to be incapable of forcing them to. And the jagged edges on the rocks began to hurt. No more would I beat down upon them--they had beaten me, and I would now move myself for them. But the need still bowed before me.
As I ran on, I became more and more tired, wanting only to rest, and the more tired I became, the slower I ran, until even the reeds no longer bowed. Still I slowly trickled on, watering plants and animals on my way. Now I run no more. I am at the end. But once I am gone, taken by the plants and the animals, and sun, I know that I will be free and fresh, once more racing and dancing--among the clouds.