Water

I’m water.
I exist in three forms—ice, water, and vapour.
I float in myself—ice on water.
I escape from myself—vapour from water.

I’m omnipresent—below the earth, in the air, in the sky.
I spring from mountains, melting ice into streams.
I rush down slopes, named by my size:
brook, rivulet, rill, stream, creek, river.
Leaping, I tumble as waterfalls.
When still, I’m well, pond, lake, sea, ocean.

In air, I drift as vapour—humidity’s measure.
In sky, dark clouds hoard my tiny droplets.
When I cry, it rains.
When I scream, torrents pour.
When angry, cloudbursts rage.

Normally calm, I fall gently, nurturing life.
People drink me, cook, clean with me.
Animals bathe; plants drink through roots and leaves.
I nourish all in my path.

Yet nature turns me fierce—
floods, landslides, tsunamis unleash.
With wind and thunder, I destroy everything.

People love me, bare no secrets.
Even the shy disrobe in my embrace,
as I cleanse every nook and crevice.
They swim, revealing their inner selves.

I’m water.
I’m life.
I’m death.