Row, row, row the boat sang them all rowers deft,

Dying ripples- a memento from a dreamy noon, behind they left.

Humming an old song, them ripples each caress my feet,

And then each bringing itself a departure to another beat.

I remember a sunny Sunday, when my name you took in a yawn,

Today as I idle by this stream, the ripples tell me again you are gone.

Think of you I once in a while, forget you I try more often,

But tell me these ripple again, as to the beat strike the oarsmen.

Look at them not -these ripples, for they distort my face,

The tussles of a once tempestuous heart still have no grace.

Amused are these banks by the resilient ripples since grand old eternity,

For to the banks we must all get and row we must in all certainty.

From the past to the present and the present to a past, these ripples alone ferry us.

 So, row we must, trapped be not by these ripples, row we must.