Samsara Torrent -

But most do not rise. Most clutch at debris: a gold coin from a life as a miser, a child’s shoe from a life as a parent, a scepter from a life as a tyrant. And the debris pulls them under, into the crushing dark where the pressure is so great that desire itself fuses into diamond—hard, beautiful, and utterly useless.

Its current is made of time misused. You can see faces in the water—not reflections, but actual faces. The lover you left without a word. The version of yourself who took a different job, a different flight, a different vow. They drown silently, their mouths open in questions that never form bubbles. To drink from this river is to remember every death you have ever died, every skin you have ever shed, in a single, unbearable second. Samsara Torrent

And somewhere, a drop falls.

To drown here is not to die. It is to be recycled . But most do not rise

The Torrent has no banks. It has karmic eddies —whirlpools where the same argument repeats for a thousand years between the same two souls in different bodies. A king and his usurper become mother and unwanted child, become a cat and a dog chained in the same yard, become two nations sharing a radioactive border. The Torrent spins them, a slow, crushing centrifuge, until the friction of their hatred finally, mercifully, grinds them into sand. Its current is made of time misused