The river has gone underground ,a cracked dry bed of a mouth
where the tongue lays bereft as a washed up fish on muddy banks
trying to breathe through gills, clogged with the very surrounding air ,no longer able to swim, just flap out its final strength until dead. This is the tongue of a poet who once sung from dawn till dusk, into the watches of the night, and found a delight in every small fountain gushing out the places so eagerly sought, and found in the wilderness, the oasis of song.
The clear spring of the river gushing from the great mystery of life, once more, just once more is all that's asked.