Flowing eternally, incessantly shapechanging They run since the creation of the World From the crystal-clear source of vitality, Giving births, giving might.
Small brook becomes a roaring torrent But colors are gradually fading away It burns in the devouring fire of Phlegethon
Rivers, that are slowly passing by Never are being the same, But always to the same end, The predetermined final
What expects waters falling into the storming seas? The destination is obscure, but firm.