When someone tosses a note in a bottle down a stream,
They'll never know where it will end up.
Maybe some African tribe in a dense jungle will get a glimpse of Western writing.
Likewise, a modernistic Parisian may find the bottle,
Floating down an illuminated Seine,
Bobbing near the reflection of the Eiffel Tower.
It could very well end up on some flooding moor,
Growing grass next to it for generations to come,
Never to see human eyes again,
But instead decompose and rot into the loamy soil.
And if none of those things happen,
Then maybe it'll end up where it started,
In a forest,
Being pushed to the bark of a tree,
By swooshing stream pulses,
Sleeping to the crickets' chirping,
Hearing trite echoes,
And waiting to be read.
