The Girl Who Spoke to Rivers

They said she was strange that girl who walked where no roads went,

barefoot through the hush of dawn,

trailing whispers instead of footprints.

Mist clung to her hair like memory,

and the river listened when she sang.

Her voice wasn’t words it was ache, it was healing, it was everything between.

Some nights, she’d sit by the water’s edge, throwing pebbles like tiny promises.

Each ripple carried a dream downstream,

toward somewhere only the brave would go.

She loved once a boy who built her wings, then feared her flight.

So she learned to rise alone,

with a quiet kind of power that doesn’t ask permission.

Now they say she’s gone,

that the river took her heart away.

But if you stand close enough at twilight,

you’ll still hear her in the hush, in the hum, in the heartbreak of flowing water.

Because some girls never really leave they just become the story

the river never stops telling.