The River's Archaeology

Water remembers what stone forgot— the thousand patient hours of friction, the way a river learns the shape of earth.

Each droplet carries away what centuries had anchored. The cliffs surrender inch by inch, their rough edges softening into sand.

In the museum of worn things, every pebble is a biography. What stories live in the smooth palm of a stone nobody thinks to question?

Time is not the villain here. It is the kindest thief, turning hardness into dust, dust into soil, soil into the green that remembers what used to be mountain.