Sun-drenched or rain-drenched, cutting the wind
Mississippi was who grew my fins
Flowing into a mysterious gulf
I hope she is not taken advantage of
Maybe taking on other rivers’ burdens
I see her beauty, glistening currents
Swamp, cliff, forest, sands
In high skies I foresee shimmering bands
To unite again after a come-hither aria
Beyond mere past times nostalgia
It is clear, reality phantasmagoria