What is your age in centuries?
The river with silvery hair, unfettered by ice. How many springs have passed since I first came to admire your braids? You never use the same voice twice. When will you finally let me in on the secret? What is it that you are saying to the air? Migration is at the heart of your narrative. Songful cranes take to the skies in the spring. About how every morning you greet the sun as he rises over your lovely waters and how every evening you bid him farewell as he sets. Look at the willow's bent branches as it weeps over its summer wardrobe. The rooks' springtime cries are very joyful! At night, the stars dissolve into gold, and you know that some of them tumble into faraway whirlpools. The way that a thin layer of frost at daybreak forms a border of ice. However, the morning that is soon to break has witnessed his efforts, and so it blows with a warm breath, setting the rivers free once more. As a murky blanket of fog settles over the fields. When roused from their slumber, birch trees bewitch with their swaying branches
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From @sodrill