Water in drain

place revisited, winter night, quiet village. this sound is one of the oldest i remember. or more precise, a few meters away, the sound of a beautiful little creek disappearing in a drain pipe. her miserable body wastes away, wakeful with sorrows; leanness shrivels up her skin, and all her lovely features melt, as if dissolved upon the wafting winds—nothing remains except her bones and voice - her voice continues, in the wilderness; her bones have turned to stone. She lies concealed in the wild woods, nor is she ever seen on lonely mountain range; for, though we hear her calling in the hills, 'tis but a voice, a voice that lives, that lives among the hills.