She, Storyteller

I can already see the Prana making canyons in the Karma and the wild bushes of hopes and shrubs of dreams growing idly by its steep banks of wonder. In a hundred years the saplings will tower and still remember the sound of your voice. In a thousand the river will calm to a trickle and babble the stories you told to the best of their memory and the glimmer on its surface will sparkle its finest to imitate the diamonds you have for eyes.