With grace she moves, a queen of old,
To where the river flows, its stories told.
A golden urn she holds, so finely wrought,
To capture water, pure and deeply thought.

She dips it in the stream, so crystal clear,
A treasure trove, dispelling any fear.
Each drop she gathers, like liquid gold,
A precious gift, a story to be told.

Her eyes reflect the river's sparkling gleam,
A goddess of the waters, it would seem.
With every breath, she feels the river's might,
A sacred bond, a source of pure delight.