POPALS Anthology

The river remembers what we forget—
the songs our grandmothers sang at dawn,
the prayers whispered into morning mist,
the names of children who never grew old.

It carries our stories in its current,
weaving through villages and cities alike,
a liquid archive of joy and sorrow,
flowing toward an ocean of memory.

I stand at its banks and listen,
hearing echoes of a thousand voices,
each ripple a word, each wave a verse,
in the endless poem of our people.

The river remembers, and so must we—
guardians of stories yet to be told,
keepers of flames that refuse to die,
children of waters that never grow cold.