The Moon Whispers in Reverse While the River Sings

Night flows upstream
while lunar syllables
fall like silver coins
into backward currents.

The river knows all languages:
ripple-speak and stone-song,
fish-dreams and star-scatter,
but tonight it learns
to read the moon’s lips
in mirror-writing.

Listen closely:
water remembers
what light forgets,
translating celestial secrets
into liquid vowels
that swim against time.

The moon’s whispers
travel counterclockwise,
each word unwinding
like thread from ancient spools,
spelling stories end to beginning:
“once upon a time”
becomes
“emit a nopu ecno”

Meanwhile, the river
composes forward,
its melody braiding
through moonlit consonants,
creating harmonies
from contradiction.

They meet in the middle,
where meaning bends
like reeds in current,
where backward and forward
lose their relevance
in the dance of
reflection and flow.

Fish surface to catch
fragments of lunar poetry,
their scales flickering
with half-understood verses
as they dive between
what was said
and what was meant.

On the banks,
crickets conduct
this strange duet,
keeping time
with quantum mechanics
while frogs punctuate
with philosophical croaks.

The night deepens
into a palindrome
of light and water,
each element reading
itself in the other’s face,
until dawn breaks
the spell with
its forward march,
leaving only ripples
of reversed dreams
in its wake.

But listen —
in the space between
day and night,
you might still hear
the echo of when
the moon spoke backwards
and the river
sang along.