Sometimes the river keeps the lost

As they take their final rides

Drifting to and fro with

The cycle of the tides.

Sometimes the Pilots or the watermen

Can suggest where they'll be

If they they know where and when 

They start their journey to the sea.

It's a solitary decision 

So we seldom know why

Those lost souls choose 

This way in which to die.

Maybe they've lost hope

Or maybe it's dark despair 

That drives those poor souls

To end their lives in there;

Maybe it's ancestral memory,

For all life came from the sea.

Whatever their reasoning

That's where they choose to be.

For a brief time we look and mourn

For those missing and gone

While the uncaring river

Still just flows on and on.

Whether by accident 

Or by their own hand

 Life cycles finish

For those denizens of the land. 

The ancient river flows

Largely unconcerned with man

On a timescale so much longer

Than any individual's brief span.

And the cold silver moon 

Which holds the tides in thrall

Shows no emotion 

As it overlooks all.

Drifting to and fro with

The cycle of the tides,

Sometimes the river keeps the lost

As they take their final rides.