Millions come and millions go
over the bridge which underneath
that lone river does flow..

No one knows from where comes she
and till where does she go
attention devoid yet full of pride
for all these years her mild waves did glide.

And woods i see as densest be
do drench their roots for glee
and to her left the vast grey plains lie
strewn with her wealth like an enormous pie..

For ages has she quenched every race
by her bosoms milk with such a grace
and like a mother she never discriminates
among whites or blacks or inferiors or greats..

And you cannot find even a trace
of regret on her transparent face
that unrecognized prophet of secularity though
has been deprived of a single bow...
But i pay this ode to you O dear
in lieu of your debt that all races bear....

prashant shaurya

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-tale-of-the-archaic-river/