The river surges, a mercurial vein,
Of argent currents and of voluble tides;
Where every sophistry and slick disdain
Within the swirling, ebullient liquid hides.
It moans with grandiloquence and hollow boasts,
A torrent of persuasion, fierce and fast,
Populated by the pale and quiddity ghosts
Of arguments that were too frail to last.
Vesperian seeks a ford across the stream,
But every bridge is built of casuistry,
Dissolving like the fabric of a dream
Into a pool of pure ambiguity.
The clandestine depths begin to rise and roar,
To bar his passage to the further short.
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